The Jackal and The Mute
by Venus Persephone
Summary: What exactly happened to him in that Asylum? After much soul searching, I realised there was one element to the story of Ryan Kuhn that I had not written. Now dear reader, after a long absence, I present to you the final part in our story. Please R&R if that's still a thing...
1. Ch1: What Going On Behind These Walls?

**Chapter 1**

**What's Going On Behind These Walls?**

She sat in the hall, holding onto her cigarette despite how it was almost depleted. She just couldn't seem to let go of the damn thing as the hot glowing embers ate away at the tobacco. She was focused on it as it burned in her fingertips, breathing deeply. The hustle and commotion around her blended into white noise. All she heard over the din of the breakfast line, was the sound of those damn drums, the repetitious beating of spears on zebra skin, getting louder and louder.

"Boo!" someone startled her, clutching her shoulders as they did. She very nearly screamed in horror and turned, grabbing a fork in her hand, only to breathe a deep yet aggravated sigh of relief when she saw the culprit.

"Goddamn it, Smythie," she exclaimed at the skinny figure who stood behind her with his arms raised in defence, "I _asked_ you not to sneak up on me,"

He only smiled jestingly at her, "Sorry, old habits die hard," he chuckled as he reached back to the next parallel table to retrieve the breakfast tray he had left there in order to spook his friend, "You just looked so engrossed in your smoke, I didn't want you to burn yourself," he strolled around the table to sit opposite her, a mighty meal in hand. Despite the size of Smythie's appetite, you would think he'd never had a decent meal in his life; all bones and no meat. He looked at his friend, noticing that she had no food in front of her, "Not hungry today, Liz?" he asked, taking a large bite from a piece of non buttered toast.

Lizzie rubbed her dark encircled eyes with the heel of her palm, reluctantly extinguishing her cigarette in the ashtray provided, " I didn't sleep well,"

"Bad dreams again?"

"No, just these bloody hallucinations... those damn drums..." she sighed, looking into the near distance as the world around came back into reality. She saw the patients, dressed in the same garb as her own. Plain linen trousers that were too big with matching short sleeved tops. By now, most had grabbed their breakfast trays and were beginning to sit on the long tables lined up in the hall, others stood in line ready to receive their meals. A veritable collections of oddities surrounded her, from the very nervous to the deranged. Some with bizarre ticks, others a far away look in their eyes from medication, some even seemed normal, or as normal as one could deduce considering they were here. Lizzie was here though, she felt normal, and Smythie seemed normal too despite his peculiarities.

"Another glorious day in the asylum," she uttered.

Smythie smirked as he chewed on a piece of bacon, "Good morning, Borehamwood," he replied with a full mouth, "Still, it's better than it used to be. Trust me, Lizzie, you're lucky you came here after the changes took affect." Smythie had been here for years.

"So you keep telling me," Lizzie pushed herself away from the table and stood, the crowded hall was becoming too noisy for her, "I'm going for a walk,"

"Mm! Before you go," Smythie dropped his cutlery and began patting himself down, "I have... something for... you. Where did I?... Ah!" As if the thought had always been obvious, he looked around for orderlies and nurses before lifting his leg and removing something from his sock, he palmed it and subtly handed it to Lizzie. She gazed at the shiny item he had given her.

"A salt shaker? Really?"

"Shh! We don't have enough for everybody," he whispered harshly as he closed her fist back around it, "I thought it was pretty, I thought you might like it,"

Once again it seemed that Symthie's kleptomania had gotten the better of him, it was the primary reason he had been institutionalised. There was only one place he could have possibly stolen this from; the staff dining room. Patients were not allowed access to items they could weaponise and a small piece of easily broken glass was only one example.

"Now, you can have salt whenever you want to spice up your dinner,"

"And what happens when I run out of salt?"

"Well..." It was clear that he had not yet thought that far ahead, although Lizzie was sure it would not take his brain long to concoct a cunning plan to 'acquire' some. She simply thanked him for his efforts and headed off through the halls, avoiding the eyes of other patients as she went

Elizabeth Shaw did not believe in psychiatry and for the life of her she could not understand why she had been sent here to this horrible place with its bare walls, echoing corridors and out of place humans.

She was not delusional, she wasn't under the impression that the drums she heard were anything other than a traumatic memory. She didn't bash her head multiple times against the walls as she had seen other patients do; one patient in particular heard voices who had instructed him to do so but gave no apparent reason for the demand.

She was still eating, only just. She was not starving herself like the women institutionalised here on hunger strike as part of their suffragette movement.

She was not hurting herself intentionally or intent on suicide. She could see that determined look in some patients eyes, the ones covered in healing scars and weeping bandages on their arms and legs, if there were other wounds to see, they were not on display to her or anyone else in the halls. With the one exception of a mentally deranged young woman with wild hair who had suffered such enormous and true delusions, one of which was if she were naked she were invisible. Lizzie got a full look at the horrible lacerations adorning her plump body as the woman snuck through the corridors in the nude, looking desperately for a way out.

Lizzie had none of these and yet she had been placed her with the diagnosis of 'hysteria'.

Hysteria; she could laugh. That generic diagnosis thrown upon women for any behaviour deemed inappropriate or out of sorts. Hysteria, from the Greek _hystera, _literally the latin word for uterus. It could be branded upon any woman who was irrational or irritable. To describe a woman who had lost her appetite for food and other activities, frequent fainting and shortness of breath was also covered by the term. The term seemed to have no clear boundaries and could be thrown about needlessly, from nervousness all the way to sexually forward behaviour. Anything that made a woman a nuisance in someone's eyes. It was an easy diagnosis, and one unfortunately that fitted her aptly enough to warrant being sent here.

She came to a stop at the large French doors that led into the splendid hospital gardens, vibrant with the colours of spring, the relaxing scent of petrichor upon the soft breeze after a warm night laced with rain. She smiled a small smile, happier to be away from the breakfast bustle. She lit another cigarette, breathing it in deeply and exhaling to the wind as it took the smoke in its embrace and drifted away, disappearing as it soared higher and higher to the partially cloudy skies. She closed her eyes as she brought the cigarette back to her lips again and listened intently to the sounds of the garden. The breeze through the flowers, the buzzing of bee somewhere to her right, the wind chimes in some distant part of the greenery, the trickle of water from the large fountain. All of it so far away from her trauma, and yet even now as far as she was from it, she could still hear the drums, as though they were approaching from over the rolling hills; and like so many times before, she remembered the details. She remembered the African heat and how it had blistered her skin, the sounds of the garrison as they marched, the horses, those poor, poor horses.

She recalled with clarity as the sound had started subtly at first, too far away to be heard over the sound of the group as they walked the road towards the outpost they were to be stationed at. Herself, five other nurses besides herself, a matron among them, a protective shield of twenty armed British artillerymen surrounded them, some on horseback, the others on foot, a wagon behind them carrying the medical supplies. None of it was enough to prevent the tragedy.

The Sergeant ahead of them had stopped and put up his had to signal the troop to halt, and that's when they heard it.

"How odd," an artilleryman had uttered, "Sounds like a damn train,"

Matron gave the young man a hard look at using such harsh language in front of her girls. It would be the last hard look she gave anyone.

The Zulu rebellion of 1916 was a much less spectacular affair that its predecessor. It did not have the sheer numbers of warriors or the impressive standoff that was Rorke's Drift nearly thirty years prior. It was not an event that would strike the history books and stand out as great warfare. No, this was a smaller mass of rebels who killed only a handful of people during their short assault upon the British Empire. The ambush that followed would not be documented or reported back home in Blighty except to the weeping mothers and inconsolable widows lest it lower morale back home.

They had come out of nowhere it seemed. Suddenly taking the group of nurses and soldiers completely by surprise and had lain waste to any form of defensive action. Lizzie would find out later, that the drums she heard in the distance were the sounds of Zulu warriors beating short asegai spears against their shields, but that this was a clever distraction. The beating of shields was a celebration by another tribe further in the distance. The two events had been completely coincidental, but that did not stop the nightmares.

By sheer luck, Lizzie had fallen to the ground during the earlier part of the skirmish and had lain prone while the bodies of her comrades, men and women fell on top of her, their blood covering her eyes, their final screams echoing and dulling under the weight of the fallen. She had heard the cries of their attackers talking in the native tongue, the only word she understood was the was victory cry "Zulu!"

She had not begun to cry until the Zulu had begun killing the horses. She stifled the sounds of pity against her hand as the horses appeared to scream. Fortunately, she could not see what they did to them. She did not move from her position amongst the bodies, she did not move when she heard the Zulu leave, she did not move when night fell. It was not until the following morning when a patrol encountered the butchered remains. The soldiers had carefully lifted the bodies from the pile in hopes of identifying them and at the base they found the petrified nurse still sobbing into her sleeves. They had coaxed her up to her feet gently and asked what had happened. Lizzie looked around her, at the carnage, her mutilated nursing staff, the beheaded artillerymen, the fly ridden carcasses of three dead horses and her own blood covered hands... and Lizzie screamed.

And now she was here, only two months later. Sent home from the horrors of Africa, given a quick medical before being sent back to nursing duties in the Royal London Hospital. It was at this time that the auditory hallucinations began and on her first night of hearing them in a dark corridor, she struck out and stabbed one of her fellow sisters with a pair of scissors. No permanent harm was done to the nurse but Lizzie was institutionalised over the incident. She herself had no memory of it. Only remembering waking up in this strange ugly place they called Borehamwood Asylum. Even now she struggled to believe she had done something so heinous.

Something brought her back to reality although she wasn't sure what it was. Once again her cigarette had ebbed away to nothing and she cursed inwardly that it had. She left the gardens, too exhausted to ponder joining a group therapy session today. The drums were often quieter during the day for some reason, perhaps it would be preferable to have a nap now. _Better that than sleep deprivation, _she thought as she recalled what such a thing did to certain patients she had witnessed. She carried the image with her as she ascended the large staircase.

Her room was bare aside from a small bedside table beside her cot, upon it a photo of her late mother and herself. She turned the photo around, still struggling to look her dead mother in the eyes, the sweet but opinionated lady would've had some harsh words for her daughter right now if she were alive.

Despite a wandering mind, it did not take Lizzie long to fall into the comfortable arms of slumber. She chuckled a little as she pulled a blanket over her, remembering how Symthie always commented on how lucky they were to have blankets at all now. Surely he must be exaggerating all these details, no place could be that terrible could it?

She awoke suddenly. Startled from her rest by the realisation that she was dreaming and with it came worry that she had slept too long. She was not wrong in her assumption; the hallway outside her room was dark and the usual chatter of the halls was all but gone save for a few murmured voices. She clenched her eyes to fight the dehydration headache the long sleep had left her with, she needed a drink, she needed a cigarette, she needed to relieve herself.

"Blast!" she swore, throwing off the sheet and standing on shaky sleep riddled legs.

_First thing's first, _she thought, _I need fluids... we'll deal with the rest after that..._

She ventured to the communal bathroom in the dark and proceeded to drink from the tap. Once the other formalities were over she reached for her cigarette case, made sure she had a lighter and went to go downstairs.

It was then that she heard the hushed commotion below her. Lizzie followed it, coming to halt at the top of the staircase. She quickly lowered herself behind the bannister to hide when she saw the darting light beneath her. An orderly ran into view, dropping his torch and swearing to high heaven.

"He bit me, the fucker bit me!" he bellowed angrily.

"Quiet down," another rugged voice came. A second orderly emerged from below the stairs, "We don't want the whole fucking place to wake up,"

The first orderly was a younger man, he gripped his injured hand that dripped blood down his fingers, "I hope you fucking choke on it!" he yelled to some hidden thing beneath the stairs.

"I said, put a sock in it," the older man ordered, smacking the younger one upside the head. He took his co-worker's hand and examined it in the light, "That'll teach you to tease the bastard, won't it. Next time just feed it and get out,"

"It fucking hurts,"

"Its just a flesh wound. Not like it's a fucking werewolf or 'owt,"

They jostled back and forth in a similar manner for a few minutes before finally departing down the hallway together. Lizzie could not help noticing as she raised herself up that the younger orderly had left his torch behind.

She cautiously descended the stairs, making sure they were well away before crossing the boundary to the ground floor.

The situation had perplexed her to say the least. She knew there were some violent patients in the Asylum, but they were generally removed from the populace for their own safety and that of others, many of them were housed in a separate annex in the hospital grounds, so what on earth were they talking about.

She looked at the torch at her feet and bent to pick it up. Smythie could make some use of it no doubt. As she bent over though she could hear it again, the sound of distant drums. She quickly grabbed the torch and turned in both directions, but she was alone. She chastised herself for over reacting once more at the damn hallucination, but then her attention was drawn to where the drums appeared to be coming from and she shuddered at the realisation.

The door was open; it was the first time she had ever seen it open. It was the only thing in this place that truly scared her and it was not a hallucination.

A door in a corridor should not be an unusual thing, but this particular door had a certain foreboding about it, one so strong that Lizzie could visualise the darkness oozing out like sap from the hinges and cracks. It was made of a darker, heavier wood than any other in the building which only added to the intensity of it's obscurity. It was shrouded in shadow due to its location beneath the stairs. But these were not the only reasons the door was so daunting.

In a hospital that prided itself on having an open lock policy on the doors to patients rooms, the dining areas or art therapy rooms, a door that was both securely locked and bolted from the outside sent a message all of its own.

Of course, Lizzie had endeavoured to find what lay beyond the door to rest her agitated mind but had little success. Smythie was a terrible liar but had offered no explanation, she remembered him saying once, "Oh, that?" he'd shrugged his shoulders, "No idea. Not important though, just storage I reckon," he had quickly changed the subject after that.

The lack of honesty Lizzie encountered in her pursuit was terribly unsettling, but the apprehension had only grown stronger when she had approached a particularly friendly nurse on the subject; they had said in a firm voice that no such door existed, they were adamant of it.

Now Lizzie stood before it, no longer locked and secure but open, dark and seemingly cold within. The drums grew louder, or was it her own heartbeat?

Once more she checked the hallway to be sure of her solitude. She had to see what it was. What could possibly scare two sane, large, grown men so? She silently inched herself closer and taking a deep breath, she stepped into the inky blackness.

The shadows seemed to engulf Lizzie and the light completely but she kept going, keeping the light beam to the ground. Stone stairs led the way further down into the asylum and Lizzie wished she had some slippers now. The air was dank, the walls that gave off any light were dripping with moisture making a reflective surface and somewhere below the sound of a pipe dripping echoed upwards.

"What an awful place," she mused to herself as she was forced to pinch her nose now that stench became stronger, it was a scent she recognised from her training at the poor houses in less privileged districts but much more intense. The steps seemed endless to her, if there was indeed a passageway to Hell she was sure she had inadvertedly stumbled upon it. In truth, it was not that deep below the building, it only appeared so with her cautious gait and the claustrophobic atmosphere.

Lizzie paused at noticing that the steps ended and led into a darkened room. The dripping of the pipe echoed even louder now. She swung the torch slowly around before venturing in. The basement contained a multitude of items; stretchers with leather restraints, boxes of medical supplies, the telltale packaging of surgical tools. She gulped as she stepped at last into the dark, cold room, venturing across to the boxes to find most of the supplies were expired by a year or two. The surgical tools were unused, still in their sterilised packaging but a heavy layer of dust had settled on them, a dark spider scurried away into a nest of straw that lined the box as Lizzie shone her torch on it. Clearly, no one had been down her for a long time to make use of the bounty. It would have been a months supply for a general hospital. Lizzie shuddered though, she could not for the life of her understand why a psychiatric hospital would require them.

_Maybe Smythie wasn't exaggerating..._

A mouse darted for safety, knocking a metal contraption to the floor. Lizzie yelped but followed the fleeing creature with her torchlight, watching as it hastily jumped to the ground and head towards the wall. Strangely though, it stopped as if it suddenly remembered where it was. It remained frozen for a second before at last running in the opposite direction, it cared not for Lizzie's presence anymore, it ran over her foot to avoid whatever had scared it so.

Lizzie shrieked; something in the darkness moved as she did. Her eyes grew wide in fear, she was not alone down here. To make matters all the more sinister, Lizzie realised now that drums had fallen deathly silent.

She gingerly moved the torch back to where the mouse had darted from, back to where she had seen something move. She prayed for the drums now, anything to cover up the sounds of the room, the insistently dripping pipe, the odd rustlings from vermin in the crates, the sound of the heavy breathing that was not her own.

_Is there someone else down here?_ The question troubled her, why would there be anyone down here?

Her light finally came to the wall and within the wall, a solid iron gate, rusted from disuse and chained shut with a hefty padlock, beyond the gate, something _did _move, it fled from the light. Whatever it was, it was large, no mere rodent.

She crept closer, wishing to get a look but equally wishing to run away and leave well enough alone. She felt as though she were suddenly being spied by some predatory animal. The room beyond the gate appeared empty, she stepped closer again.

Had the iron bars not been there, the beast would surely have grabbed her, how fortunate it was that they were. All she saw were the claw like fingers that reached forth from the impenetrable dark, a demonic cry followed them.

Lizzie shot backwards away from them, hitting some crates behind her. She froze in place with the beam of the flashlight wobbling uncontrollably, she was unable to keep it steady in her trembling hand.

Slowly the hands that had sought to grab her receded back, they rested on the iron bars, behind them she saw a large figure. As she struggled for breath she saw the wild mane of black hair, flashes of light reflecting off metal and behind it all, a single angry grey eye leered at her. For a long moment, they stared at one another, her without breath, the thing drawing deep breaths into itself.

The thing sighed and reached forth its hand before saying in a dry, scratchy deep voice, "Come closer, dear, so I can better see your face,"

Lizzie's eyes grew wider, she tried to scream but found the sound stuck in her throat, her lungs hurt. She stuttered with breathlessness,

"I said come here, you rancid whore!" it screamed at her as it reached out again and threw its weight against the bars.

Lizzie ran, screaming as she did. So loud were her screams that they drowned out the accursed cries of the fiend she left behind in the dark. She couldn't remember a time she had run so fast in her life, but at least with screaming she was drawing much needed air into her lungs. She reached the top, slammed the heavy foreboding door shut, dropped the torch and continued running up the stairs where she collided straight into Smythie.

He caught the frantic girl in his arms having heard her cries. It was fortunate he was loitering the halls this late, he often did in an attempt to acquire items for his collection. The screams had alerted him and he had soon realised it was Lizzie, he had darted in the direction and found her a scared, frightened mess, it took several seconds for her to recognise her friend at first.

"Lizzie, it's me, it's me, it's Smythie," he assured her as she struggled against him, her wide eyes finally settled on his face and took in his features, his bony cheeks, his sunken yet vibrant hazel eyes, his messy mousey blonde hair, she burst into painful sobs against his chest, "What happened?"

"I... I saw... I... the thing, a monster!"

"Monster?" he queried, trying to make sense of her ramblings, "What monster?"

"The... thing... the door! Under... under the building, there's... Oh God!" she covered her mouth with her hands, still trying desperately to comprehend what she had seen.

Smythie's face suddenly fell at an all too real understanding. He brought Lizzie close to him, holding her tightly against his chest. It was just as much for his own comfort as it was for hers.

He trembled, but Lizzie did not notice, "I'm sorry," he whispered.

"What's all this then?" a lone booming voice called, a torch shone down the hall towards them and Symthie shielded his eyes to see who it was, Lizzie still squirming to get as far from the door as possible.

"Shit," Smythie whispered to himself, "Nothing gov' just a spot of night terrors is all," he responded to the cautiously approaching guard who tried to recognise the patients faces.

"Is that you Smyth?" he enquired, his voice still booming.

"Yes sir, it's all in hand sir, I'm just taking Lizzie here back to her room. You know Lizzie, sir? The one from sent home from Africa, the Zulu Rebellion?"

The guard lifted his torch higher, at last getting a good look at the young woman cowering behind Symthie, she looked a frightened mess, eyes wide and panting. Fortunately, he was familiar with the case and felt a pang of sympathy for her, he was a war veteran himself and understood if even fractionally what she had been through, "Just make sure she gets there safely Symth, and make sure nothing funny goes on, anything in her room _stays_ in her room. You hear me?"

"Yes gov', on my life gov'" Smythie tipped an invisible cap in the guards direction and began leading Lizzie back to her room. Only when they turned the corner did he stop and grasp Lizzie by her shoulders, holding her with a hard gaze. He was scared, she could tell by the way his hands trembled, "Listen to me, go to bed, take one of these," he reached to his pocket and palmed a small pill to her.

"What was that _thing_?!" she managed at last.

Smythie shushed her aggressively, "Lizzie, tomorrow! I promise tomorrow I'll tell you everything, but not right now. Not even I dare speak of it in the dark,"

He refused to speak after that, despite how she persisted. He led her to her bed and left for the safety of his own room, hesitantly checking the corridor before he left as though he were scared of some unseen monster he'd not thought of for many years.

Lizzie took the pill but struggled to sleep through her fear and wandering mind, she saw the things eye whenever she closed her own, heard his taunts whispered in her ears. If it hadn't been so horrifying, she would have welcomed the replacement, but now she longed to hear those damn drums.

She left her room with the toll of the bells at seven o'clock, the standard time for patients to leave their cells and head for breakfast and hurried down to the dining hall where Smythie waited. It came as a surprise to find him already at one of the long tables, head down, staring at his hands and without a tray of food in front of him. He smoked a cigarette that was very nearly extinct, but she knew he would have several pre rolled.

Lizzie crossed the room to him and sat opposite. She did not press her friend for the information, she could see how he was still preparing himself for this tale. At long last, Smythie sighed but did not look up from the table as he aggressively finished this cigarette and proceeded to find another.

"So," he began with a trembling voice, "Now you know. The dark, terrible secret of Borehamwood Asylum... dammit Lizzie, why couldn't you just leave it alone?"

She lit her own cigarette and leaned closer to him, "What the Hell is down there, Smythie?"

He simply couldn't meet her eyes as some horrific memory stirred behind them, "I told you not to go down there,"

"No, you told me it was nothing! You told me the door led nowhere!"

"I did it to protect you!" he squirmed in his seat after realising how he had raised his voice, he lowered it again, "It was none of your concern,"

Lizzie's eyes bore into his forehead, annoyed that he refused to make his own level with hers, "You promised me answers, Smythie. I'm listening; what's down there?"

As though he could feel the pressure of her eyes upon him, Smythie finally met her eyes. She's seen it now, there was no point in hiding it. She deserved to know now, "Truthfully, it's not so much as a what as it is a who..." he played with his unlit cigarette.

"That was no man," Lizzie implored.

"Oh Liz," he responded, at last putting the cigarette to his lips, he left it there while he spoke, "I assure you, once upon a time, that _thing_ was the most charming, eloquent man you've ever laid eyes on,"

"So what _happened_?"

Smythie took a deep breath, retrieved his matches from hiss pocket and finally lit the cigarette, he inhaled deeply, letting it sit upon his chest for a comfortable moment, he sighed as he exhaled. He was ready to tell the story, he took hold of Lizzie's hand as though to steady the words, "We don't talk about it much, many try to forget those times, but every now and then you can still hear the hushed whispers that speak the name... Ryan Kuhn,"


	2. Ch2:Into The Asylum, A Smile On Her Face

**Chapter 2**

**Into The Asylum, A Smile On Her Face**

"I'm very sorry, Mrs Carter, but I'm afraid there's nothing more I can do," The doctor's voice was soft but authorative in its assertion. He sat at a large mahogany desk, pristine tidy and well kempt with only a single open file before him. He gazed at the veiled figure who sat as though a grieving widow at a funeral; Queen Victoria herself would have approved.

It was not the news she had hoped for, not what she had paid to be told. Mrs Carter took a small inward gasp, placing her hand to her chest as though breathing were becoming difficult, "What on Earth do you mean?"

He had anticipated this high drama response well in advance, he was used to it coming from his wealthier clients, he leaned closer and steepled his fingers, "Mrs Carter, there is nothing physically wrong with your daughter," The woman gasped again, deeper this time, "I believe that her condition may in fact be psychological in nature,"

Another even deeper came from the older woman who by now was no longer shocked but rather insulted that the consultant she paid so handsomely had returned with such a diagnosis. At last, she regained her composure.

"Poppycock!" she exclaimed sharply, this being the most vulgar expression she had in her vocabulary. She reached for her large bag and umbrella as she rose furiously from the chair, "I've never been so insulted in my life, sir. _My _daughter? A nut case? Absolute tish!" Had she not been veiled her cheeks would have displayed a bright red flush upon them, "I always knew you were charlatan. I'll have your license revoked. I'll take her to someone who knows what they're talking about," she turned to leave the spacious office.

The doctor sighed in resignation. This 'charlatan' had been the Carter family physician for three decades.

"Mrs Carter," he implored, "If you continue to investigate this matter in a clinical sense you may do more damage than good,"

The veiled woman stopped as she reached for the doorknob.

The doctor rose to his feet, "We have already performed several intrusive procedures and tests which I believe have only aggravated the problem; as your family doctor I urge you not to seek further treatment that could cause irreparable harm to your daughter,"

Victoria Carter let out a small sob, her demeanour slumped and she let go of the door knob as a feeling of defeat swamped over her, "But..." she struggled through sudden tearful tremors, "The stigma, Doctor Thomas. The shame. If rumour were to get around that my darling daughter were... mad..."

It was a common concern and one not without merit in this day and age, but there were ways around it.

As Mrs Carter sobbed softly into her veil and came back to the chair, the doctor came and placed a gentle hand upon her shoulder.

"Let me handle that," he said, "We can have her admitted into care today under a false name, and thankfully her condition will allow us the element of secrecy,"

The building was imposing from outside with its tall barred windows and dark stone, gothic architecture, it appeared to have a personality of its own, dark, foreboding and Godless despite efforts to emulate a cathedral. Even from the safety of the wrought iron gates screams could be heard emitting from within. The young girl trembled as she was led by her guardian. The gates squealed as they opened, strangely echoing the pained screams of the patients housed inside. Somewhere in the distance thunder rumbled across the darkened skies. The girl clutched to her coat in an effort to keep warm. The two of them wasted no time in rushing to the large entryway and waited to be welcomed.

Introductions were short, the matron and two senior nurses greeted Dr Thomas and his companion since a psychiatric doctor was currently unavailable. Dr Thomas declined the invitation to go further into the building, he was too concerned about being seen here and potentially recognised. He recanted the lie he had rehearsed.

"We've estimated her age to be around eighteen years. She's a runaway with no known family," dutifully one of the nurses made her notes, "You see Matron, she has sudden onset mutism with no physical cause identified so we theorise the issue is psychological," he even went as far as to provide her first name under the guise of it being a name chosen at random that she seemed to respond favourably to.

The girl listened calmly to the conversation, she smiled sweetly at the nurses but they did not return it. Instead they looked at how well dressed she was, the tidiness of her hair in a neat bun and the large fabric bag filled with clothes and toiletries. She was not alarmed, she had been assured that this institute was highly regarded, that the care of patients was expertly handled and the staff were of the highest quality. She was reassured of this and more again by Dr Thomas before he left her. He promised to return in a fortnight to assess her.

"I'll be sure to keep your mother updated on your progress," he whispered to her out of ear shot. He adjusted his hat and coat before he braved the outdoors with its unseasonal gusts of wind and icy rainfall. Little did they know this would be the last time the doctor would see the young lady he had delivered into the world eighteen years ago. If she had known, she would have embraced him before he left.

"Come here," Matron ordered.

The girl spun around to meet her and took a cautious step forward. A small smile upon her face. Matron held a magnolia folder containing the doctor's clinical notes, she tutted and shook her head, she did not lift it as she spoke, "He said you have a name, is that right?"

The girl nodded enthusiastically. Matron approached, handing the folder to one of her nurses. She wrenched the bag from the girl's hands and roughly threw it to the floor, "Not anymore you don't," Matron slapped the smile right off the girls face with her palm. The force of it so hard and unexpected that the girl fell to the floor, clasping her hand to her already tingling cheek. The two nurses stood either side of Matron as they stared down at her, "From this moment you will be issued a room number and _that _will be your name. Your name is now, thirty-one,"

She barely had time to register what was said before the nurses grabbed her under the crux of her arms and dragged her and her bag into the asylum. As the words flipped around her head, her overriding thought was that she had never been hit before, she had always been a good girl, even her father had never once raised his hand to her. She was a good girl.

She continued to struggle understanding as the two nurses lifted her and threw her to the communal shower room floor. They picked and poked at her, undoing her hair pins, ruffling her hair. They stripped her bare of clothing, they laughed at her nakedness and how she cried trying to cover herself. The forced her to the corner and turned the hose on her to wash her down, the water much too cold, the force of it gushing forward made her slip as they aimed the jet at her legs. If she could have objected and screamed she would have, but the only sounds she was capable of making were tiny whimpers easily drowned out by the white torrent of water and the laughter of the nurses. Matron stood by with an icy face, she said nothing.

Her bag was searched, her dresses removed, admired, some stolen, some ripped and thrown to the floor.

"How did this little street bitch get such nice things?" one commented.

"She either stole them or its a charitable handout from that doctor, she probably sucked his cock for them," the nurses laughed. Matron smirked. The wet, dishevelled girl who sat shivering in the corner desperately trying to cover her modesty honestly did not understand the vulgarity they jeered at.

With her possessions ruined or confiscated, she was forced into the only item of clothing the institute allowed for female patients, standard issue undergarments and a linen smock, too large for her and starched to the point of near rigidity. She was then handed a small towel and a thin pillow. She sobbed quietly as she was marched towards cell thirty-one.

As the door was locked behind her, she stood weeping and confused in her four by eight room still holding her only two possessions. Through the confusion and humiliation, she found herself worrying about something petty, something Matron had said while explaining the daily itinerary. She worried that she had to be out of bed by six o'clock in the morning. She had never been asked to do that before.

Yes, Borehamwood Asylum was highly regarded; when it had first opened its doors ten years ago. Yes, the care of patients was expertly handled; with a military precision and use of forceful restraint. Yes, the staff were of the highest quality; but cuts to the budget had left the facility understaffed and vastly unqualified.

It had been eight years since Borehamwood Asylum was last inspected, and five years since the founding governor had been in attendance.


	3. Ch3: Evil Company

**Chapter 3**

**Evil Company**

It was a cloudy day, that much he could tell from the confines of his cell with its single barred window positioned too high to see out of, but that didn't matter to him, at least it was not raining today. He sat upon the floor of his cell, his back supported against the wall, much better for lumbar support to ease his aching muscles. Muscles that ached from the fatigue of minimal movement for a long duration. He sat, his back straight against the brickwork, his eyes closed, trying desperately to remember the last time he had a cigarette and wishing he had one now. The tiring endless days and nights had finally got to him with their isolation. God, how long had it been since he'd spoken to someone, actually spoken to them? A long time; had it been weeks or months? He wasn't sure anymore, he'd long stopped trying to keep track of the days and could only assume that the summer equinox had passed due to the decreasing hours of daylight, not that he could appreciate any of it in this dark place. He tried to keep looking back to the memory of tobacco, a harmless memory, one that had not hurt anyone and a craving that was equal in its intensity to his alternative activities.  
Somewhere outside he heard the church bells chiming another dreaded hour. Six o'clock, another day another six o'clock, soon the mad rush to the dinner hall would begin, but first something else would happen, and there in the distance he could hear that it had started right on schedule, the warden of the facility ran this place like a military operation, every little act ran like clockwork; he was sure he could time it to the second if he had a watch.  
He heard the approaching steps, two sets of feet, one wearing kitten heels, the other tightly bound heavy set boots. He heard the cell doors being unlocked and opened one after the other, the mention of a number, a clattering of metal against brick, the sound of the door being closed and locked once more and then the steps would begin again. Ten times this would happen before the steps finally would reach him and he could hear now the jangling of many keys against their mother ring. He sat and waited.  
A small gap appeared near the top of the cell door where the shutter was slid open, a firm male voice spoke through it.  
"Number eleven, stand facing the wall with your hands against it!" it ordered in the same way it did every morning.  
He sat still, pondering the idea of asking the guard for a cigarette in exchange. He knew the guard smoked, he could smell it on his uniform even from here.  
"Come on, eleven, you know the drill; face the wall and put your hands up,"  
At last he opened his eyes, revealing a light blue, grey colour behind his wild hair that hung freely before his face, the eyes drilled into those of the guard behind the steel door, "Yes sir," he responded in a harsh voice, they were the only words he had spoken since yesterday morning and perhaps would be the last words he would speak today. Begrudgingly he got to his feet, went to the corner of his cell and did as instructed, placing his hands upon the wall above his head.  
"That's a good boy, eleven," the guard mockingly jested as he unlocked the door.  
_My name is Ryan,_ he growled inwardly.  
As the door opened, he heard the nurse in her kitten heels take a single step into the room and throw a metal bowl to the floor.  
_What does she look like?_ He wondered. He had heard that same gait in those same shoes every morning for a long as he could recall since he came here but not once had the opportunity to see her face, _Is she attractive? Does she wear makeup?  
_"Eyes in front, eleven," the order came and Ryan immediately returned his attention to the wall, almost unaware that he had started turning his head to catch a glimpse of the nurse. He waited for the tell tale sounds of them leaving, locking the door behind them and heading to the next cell before turning. Upon the floor lay a metal bowl filled with some grey looking substance.  
_Breakfast is served_, he thought bitterly as he picked it up and sat on his bed to eat it. No cutlery had been left but he was accustomed to this by now so he used his fingers with no shame, but cast the bowl aside after a couple of mouthfuls, the tasteless gloop was disgusting as normal.  
With little else to do, he chewed at the dry skin of his fingertips as he listened to the sounds of patients who were not confined to their cells during the day leave their rooms and head for breakfast, he wondered if they were served the same slop day in day out. They were passing him now, some chattering quietly as they passed. This corridor was reserved for the more volatile patients, those for whom the door stayed locked except for feeding. The more placid patients kept their voices low to avoid antagonising the dangerous ones.  
He thought he heard mention of a communal shower room, and how he envied them that small luxury. What would be better? A cigarette or a shower? He pondered the question for a moment before sighing. Neither; a woman would be better than either of those.  
He shook the thought away.  
He stood, filled with pent up energies and unquenchable frustrations. He went to his cell door, stared at the iron and threw his right fist into it, yelling as he did. The bustle outside died suddenly, followed by hurried footsteps as the patients ran to avoid the wrath.  
Ryan's knuckles were bleeding, he did not feel it, he simply brought his fist to his mouth and licked the blood from it, he turned away.  
He belonged here. Perhaps this was part of the therapy? Perhaps they had isolated him to cure him? If he believed they had locked him here to rot then he would surely do so, it was better to think that this was some form of avoidance therapy, keep him away from others until a suitable time had passed to allow him access to people, women... No, he had come here in the blind hope they could help him or at the very least contain him, keep others safe. There had to be a cure, there just had to be.  
"Well, that was quite an impressive display," a strong voice said behind him.  
Ryan turned a little to see the shutter on his door was still open and in it's view a pair of stern heavily bushed eyes were staring at him, they gleamed with delight. He chose to ignore them and face the wall.  
"Oh, come now. No need to be shy," the voice came again, it was a strong upper class voice, an authoritarian voice, "Not a talker, hmm? I like that. Perhaps it would be easier to talk without this blasted door between us,"  
A familiar sound found Ryan's ears and he turned in response as he heard the cell door being unlocked and opened, outside stood a tall, large chested bald man with a well groomed moustache, he held a tobacco pipe to his lips. He wore the standard issue clothing of a male patient, a white smock and plain white trousers, his clothing was immaculately cleaned and had been pressed recently.  
Ryan was dumbfounded, first that his cell door was open, secondly at having actually seen another human being after all this time, he was lost for words.  
"Now, with that out of the way allow me to introduce myself, Captain James Hastings at your service," he performed a quaint bow with the end of his sentence.  
A flash of recognition crossed Ryan's eyes at hearing the name, "I know you," he spoke softly.  
"Ah!" the large man exclaimed, he smiled broadly behind the moustache, "So it does have a voice! And what a pretty voice it has too,"  
Ryan gulped back a suddenly more than dry mouth, "The HMS Northern Star, it was all over the news. You were dishonourably discharged from the navy,"  
"Bully! I see my reputation proceeds me,"  
"They never said why..."  
The Captain quickly changed the subject, "Perhaps you would like to stretch your legs, lad?" he gestured to the open doorway, "I do believe it's time for breakfast,"  
Ryan took a step forward and then realised himself, so spellbound by the open door, "No," he whispered.  
The Captain pulled an exaggerated frown, "Shame, is there anything else perhaps you would prefer?"  
Ryan turned, shaking his head and chuckling lightly, "I only have three interests. One I won't mention, the other two are cigarettes or a shower. In that order,"  
As if on cue, the Captain clicked his fingers and from his left appeared a set of hands holding two hand rolled cigarettes and a box of matches. He took them and offered them to Ryan, raising a bushy eyebrow as he did, "Your wish is my command,"  
There was no hesitation to Ryan's haste once he spotted the articles, he dashed forward and snatched them. He stabbed a cigarette to his lips and lit in, breathing in the deepest breath he could possibly muster, a full third of the cigarette was gone before he exhaled. The sweet nicotine found his head and then his legs, he smiled as he slid down the wall in the comforting embrace of smoke.  
"Thank you," he whispered.  
"Oh, but the pleasure is _mine_, darling. Now, was your second request a shower? They would be vacant now, with plenty of hot water this time of day,"  
Ryan took another long drag of the cigarette, held his breath in a deep contemplation and finally let the smoke escape through relaxed lips, his eyes met the Captain's, "What are you, some kind of genie?"  
The Captain once again clicked his fingers and after a short while with lots of shuffling noises appeared a towel crowned a with a single bar of soap, "I've been called many things in my life," he placed his pipe to his mouth, smoke snorted from his nostrils, "Most of my fellow inmates refer to me as, The Captain. You darling, may call me Jim,"

"I'll be sure you have some clean attire when you're done," Jim said as he glanced up and down Ryan's form as they stood in the communal shower room. Ryan had already removed his shirt, it was the shirt he had been forced into on his first day of admission, by now it was heavy with dirt and no longer white. Ryan caught the man glancing and brushed it off, "We can't have you looking like that if we're to introduce you to everyone,"  
"I'm not ready," Ryan said in a low voice.  
"Nonsense," Jim exclaimed with a belting laugh, "A good wash and you'll be a new man,"  
Ryan held in shirt in his hands, rubbing his fingers over the dark stains, how they reminded him of something, "Let me be the judge of that, Jim,"  
"As you wish," he turned to leave, bringing his pipe to his mouth again, "I'll be back momentarily, enjoy yourself, mi casa su casa as they say in Spain,"  
Ryan was already far away in thought, still rubbing the stains on his shirt. He remembered, remembered how he came to be here, he unconsciously rubbed his left ring finger and felt the grove, there was still a slight discolouration of the skin... yes, he remembered.  
He remembered how he had bashed upon the door of the asylum in the pouring rain, how the door had squealed as it had opened only a few tempting inches by a young nurse.  
She took in his face, smiled politely but falsely and stated in cold tone, "I'm sorry, sir, visiting hours are over, you'll have to come back another day,"  
Before she had time to close the door, Ryan pushed back on it, the shock of his palm hitting the heavy wood made her jump. He looked down at her through soaking wet strands of hair, settling his tear stained, sleep deprived eyes on her, "I need help..." he managed through struggled breaths.  
"I'm sorry, sir," she repeated, "It doesn't work like that,"  
Ryan's face turned, he forced the door open flinging the nurse backwards in dismay at his strength, "I need help..." he said again as he stepped inside. He held out his hands palm up and now she saw the dark reddened stains upon them.  
He had rehearsed what he would say but the words were useless now, he could see that, he needed to be more theatrical, he needed them to know, he had to be contained. He began unbuttoning the rest of his shirt, "I've done things..." the last button came loose and he exposed his chest to her, ravaged and scarred, a variety of wounds adorned the flesh, clear signs of struggle, "Such horrible things,"  
The nurse ran to the main desk, grabbed a large bell and began ringing it violently to draw the attention of all staff and security personnel. They were brisk in their arrival, he had to give them credit for that.  
He was quickly surrounded by men, a gathering of female nurses appeared to comfort and protect their colleague. Even the warden had shown up, outraged by the hustle so late in the day.  
Ryan glanced slowly in all directions before revealing his identity in a way they would understand, he held his arms up at his sides in some horrific depiction of Christ and smiled as he announced clearly and loudly, "I am, the Beast of Camden," it was the name the newspapers had given him during his months of unrestrained lust.  
It had taken seconds for the words to hit their mark and for Ryan to be unnecessarily wrestled to the ground. He had laughed as a group of five men swarmed him, as though he were some great demon with inhuman strength.  
"He's laughing?" someone exclaimed.  
"I want him sedated, now!" the warden cried.  
Ryan had continued laughing manically as he watched the frantic rush, uttering harsh obscenities and catching glances of the nurses legs darting back and forth. He smiled and went to bite one of them as they placed the syringe to his throat, "Gently, sweetheart," he had jested, "I bite you know... or perhaps you like that?" he had slipped away into unconsciousness quickly after that, not from the shot, but from one of the guards bashing his face into the cold stone floor.

"He's coming round,"  
A grogginess clouded his vision and obscured the sounds, almost as though he were underwater. The taste of sweet copper was present in his mouth, it made his eyelids flutter momentarily with delicious nostalgia. The pain in his restrained limbs had not yet registered and he floated in this blissful ignorance for a few brief moments.  
"What's your name, Beast?" he heard someone say through the haze of fleeting consciousness.  
Ryan fixed his swimming focus on where the question came from, he smiled a bloodied grin in its direction but stayed silent.  
"Leave him, John," another voice uttered, Ryan rolled his head haphazardly towards it, letting a mix of blood and saliva fall from his lips in a single spindling trail to his chest, "Let the professionals deal with this,"  
His senses were coming back now, it was easier to decipher shapes and sounds but with it came the tightness around his chest and the sudden realisation that he was restrained in a chair by the seemingly impossible tightness of a straitjacket.  
"We need to alert the authorities," a tall man spoke in too loud a whisper. He was quickly silenced by a stern look from another man Ryan recognised as the warden, the waistcoat was unmistakable.  
From his peripheral, a man in a white jacket came into view and sat opposite him across the table he had not realised was there until now, a deep concern was set in this man's dark eyes.  
"Are you..." Ryan started, he stopped at the sensation of pain in his jaw and rolled his tongue around the area of offense; a tooth felt loose, "Are you a doctor?"  
"I am. My name is Doctor Jameson,"  
Ryan lifted his eyes to the room. Three other men stood there each with a stare that gave too much away about their fear and repulsion.  
"Get rid of them," Ryan ordered without breaking his gaze.  
"You don't give orders around here you bastard!" a heavy set orderly heaved. Ryan smirked again and spat in his direction. Had the others not been there to hold him back, Ryan was sure the brute would have put him back into darkness, the scuffle amused Ryan immensely as they argued amongst themselves. At last, the doctor among them ordered the other bodies out of the room. It would be of no benefit to anyone for them to be there, the beast was restrained and their presence was only aggravating him. Alone now, just Ryan and Dr Jameson, they sat facing each other again. At last Ryan relaxed his theatrics and his face fell stoic.  
"Is it true?" Jameson asked, "Are you the Beast?"  
"Were you expecting something different?" Ryan spoke softly, not at all what Dr Jameson had anticipated from the display only moments before.  
"I try not to expect _anything_ in this line of work. You can always be surprised,"  
Ryan glanced towards the door of the sparse room he found himself in, he was sure those other men were just outside, within earshot, listening to every word, but it did not matter now. He had been successful, even the bondage restricting his movements were a reminder of it.  
"My name is Ryan Kuhn," his eyes fell back to the doctor as he breathed a deep sigh, "And I admit to the rape and slaughter of those women,"  
Jameson leaned back in his chair, "Why have you come here? If you're confessing to these crimes the police would-"  
"I came for help!" Ryan interrupted, he whispered, "You think I don't know what the police would do to me? No, I don't want the justice of law. I want a cure!"  
Jameson raised his eyebrows questioningly, "A cure?"  
Infuriated now, Ryan raised his voice louder, "There _is_ a cure for sexual depravity, isn't there? Isn't that why you lock up hysterical women?"  
"Well, yes... but women have different chemicals, different..." Jameson struggled with the words, "They're just different," A standard response for a time when physicians genuinely believed the effective cure for teething pains in babies was to administer morphine or rub cocaine into the gums.  
"I'll do anything! _Anything!_" he pleaded, tears had begun to well up in his desperate pale blue eyes, eyes that had spilled a multitude of tears in the past twenty four hours, "I don't want to have this affliction anymore,"  
Unsure of how to handle the situation, Jameson paused and mused what lay ahead. It was a strange occurrence indeed, irregular to the point of being comical, but he was a professional and this was his job. It was time to assess this man as a patient if that is what he so desired.  
"Tell me of your affliction," Jameson asked, now intrigued.

Ryan forced himself from the memory and back to the relative safety of the present, the rest was too painful to remember both physically and mentally. He would rather not recall with any clarity the electro shock treatments that had scarred his temples and had left him with total amnesia for several days. It was three days until he could remember that his name was Ryan and not 'eleven' as he had been told. He would rather not relive the trauma that was the bathtub filled with ice laden water they had submerged him into, naked and vulnerable. They had held him under as he screamed beneath the cold depths, as he flailed his arms and legs, still they held him as he begged in wordless cries to stop. They had brought him up only when his lungs were on fire and he was sure he would succumb to an oxygen deprived death.  
Other than that initial meeting, Ryan never again saw Doctor Jameson; but he recalled how the man had to leave the room when Ryan became graphic with his explanations. Jameson had pressed his hand to his mouth to prevent vomiting as he ran.  
Ryan cast aside the shirt and proceeded to finish undressing.  
Jim had not been lying about the hot water.  
He knew it would be a moment to relish, a moment to enjoy without judgement, but he could not prepare himself for the sheer euphoria he felt at stepping beneath the cascade of warm water as it flowed down his back, curved at the line of his hips, met from two diverging rivers that collided upon his chest and slid ever downwards, weeping down his legs, his arms, his fingers. He supported himself against the wall with both hands, so intense was the sensations that shook his nerve endings. He watched as the muck and grime on his body trailed away to pool at his feet and vanish into a whirlpool. After such a long time of being deprived the sense of cleanliness, Ryan washed himself again and again, scrubbing the bar of soap until it was nearly depleted over every possible inch of himself he could conceive. It dawned on him as he washed that he had lost some considerable weight since his admission, hardly surprising through, but still muscles and tone were visible in his body were visible. He clawed at the tangles in his hair, pulling out the long loosened strands. By the time he was finished, the drain was clogged with a mass of dirt, hair and soap suds, it looked as though some vile hairy creature had clawed it's way out of the sewers. Ryan stared at it in satisfaction, feeling refreshed and oddly baptised by the experience and seeing the embodiment of his own filth draining away.  
As if on cure, the Captain appeared in the doorway as Ryan reached for a small towel to dry his face, "Feeling better are we?"  
Ryan lowered the towel slowly to his groin, not embarrassed by his nakedness in front of another man. He did not notice how Jim's eyes had darted to that area just before the towel covered it.  
"You have no idea," Ryan replied.  
"Good," Jim turned slightly to speak to someone hidden from view, "Here boy, bring the good man his clothes,"  
Ryan watched puzzled as a man about his age entered the room holding a neatly folded set of patient clothes, they were pristine. He watched the young man, who dare not make eye contact with him or the Captain place the clothes upon a bench. He was skinny, much too skinny Ryan thought. As quickly as he had appeared he retreated back to the corridor.  
The Captain threw his head in the boys direction, pointing his pipe towards him, "He's a good boy is our Smyth? Would've made a good powder monkey,"  
Curious now where he had not been earlier, Ryan asked, "Why is he here?"  
The Captain scoffed and chuckled at the same time, "Kleptomania, I believe they call it," the look in Ryan's eyes must have been telling, Jim continued, "It's the compulsion to steal. Just can't help himself, the poor lad, steals things willy-nilly even if he has no use for them. He has his uses though. Just don't leave anything out he might take a fancy to,"  
"I'll remember that," Ryan went back to drying his face when he spotted something he had not seen in months, his own reflection in a mirror. Puzzled briefly at the image, he stepped closer, at last realising how much he had indeed changed. His hair was longer, well below his shoulders and upon his face an impressive bread of dark hair grew. He did not recognise himself. For a long moment he simply stared at himself as though trying to find the person who used to be there.  
"If I may be so bold, it suits you. I always liked the rugged type," the Captain said in proud voice.  
Ryan did not agree with the observation, it was not his face, not the face he knew, he did not like how this man looked in the mirror.  
"I have to disagree with you, it's not me," he ran his fingers through the beard, he could not believe it had grown so boldly, "I don't suppose your kleptomaniac can acquire a razor blade could he?"  
Jim simply smiled behind his well trimmed moustache and clicked his fingers, Smythie came running, "Your wish is my command, darling,"


	4. Ch4: An Angel In White

**Chapter Four**

**An Angel In White**

Led by the Captain, Ryan made his way through the corridors and long hallways towards the recreation hall. Jim spared no details, pointing out the different rooms they passed. A small chapel with visiting pastor where the walls were so thick you could drown out the wails of a banshee if the doors were closed. The female shower room, with holes so small in the walls they were almost unnoticeable but gave an ample view of the girls as they soaped themselves if you knew which ones to use. A room for arts and crafts, a good place to find items to weaponise should it be necessary, the lock on the door was faulty, everyone knew it.

Ryan could barely believe his ears at hearing Jim speak so boldly of such things, was this not supposed to be safe place? _Clearly not what I had expected_, he thought as he followed and hung on Jim's every word.

It was clear to both of them that there were whispers passing back and forth between the patients still in the halls, they wore scared looks as the Captain passed, horrified ones as they saw Ryan follow. Jim seemed to know everyone, happily acknowledging people by name or sometimes by an alias he used, he did not stop to introduce his new protégé to anyone, they already knew who he was.

It did not take long before a male orderly was spotted in the hall. Ryan thought to flee or at least hide himself, if the patients knew enough to be terrified by his presence then surely the staff would recognise him too.

A quick glance and a knowing wink from Jim was enough to silence the orderly who obediently stepped aside, pushing himself as far against the wall as possible to allow the large man and Ryan to pass. Jim tapped his nose at the portly little man as he passed by.

_It's like he's a king in his palace of madness, _what was the saying again, _In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king... _The responses from both staff and patients to Jim left Ryan speechless, that did not happen often.

Ryan turned his head to watch as the overweight man grabbed a handkerchief from his pocket and mop away the cold sweat that had already formed on his brow before waddling away as fast as he could.

"How is it a man like you commands such respect in a place like this?" he asked his companion.

Jim did not stop walking as they neared their objective, "When money has no value, men start to find value in other commodities. For example, it would be very sad indeed if our portly friend back there were to lose his job if anyone found out he was stealing medication. Everyone in this building owes me one way or another, everyone has their own uses,"

"And what exactly did a Captain of His Majesty's Royal Navy do to wind up in a place like this?" Ryan queried, unsure as to any ailment the Captain possessed. Jim did not answer him though, he instead changed the subject to another room where medication was locked away, he knew another thief in here who had managed to smuggle his trade tools into the asylum and tampered with the lock. No lock was impassable it would appear.

"And our tour for today ends here," Jim held his arms aloft as he entered the recreation hall. The hub of the hospital, where patients amassed to spend their free time if they were allowed it.

Ryan took it all in, the wide open space, the high ceilings, the windows that stretched from fall to ceiling along the north westerly wall that brought the last pleasant rays of dusk sunlight directly into the room, it was beautifully warm. At last Ryan had the pleasure of seeing outside the walls of this dark and dank place, outside to the gardens which despite the weather were alive in full overgrown bloom. It was still Borehamwood Asylum, but at this moment it could have been Kew Gardens to Ryan's eyes. His senses came alive and he could not help but take a large intake of stale air which to him was as fresh as the gentle breeze that caressed the foliage outdoors.

It was an overwhelming sensation and one he hoped to hold onto.

"It's like seeing the world anew," he smiled a tooth filled smile and even felt his cheeks ache from a movement they had not performed for months.

"I'm glad you like it. Those isolation cells become quite lacklustre after about two days, it can be overwhelming to step out of them," Jim spied a male nurse and quickly threw his head in the direction of the recreation hall doors. The nurse quickly and quietly made his exit, "Make yourself at home. I have some matters to attend to so why don't you mingle a little, get to know some of your fellow men... or women. Whatever your preference may be,"

Jim was completely unaware that Ryan was already scanning the room. Carefully watching the patients and finally seeing faces that might have matched the voices outside his door and the screams he often heard late at night. Some of them were far away in their own worlds and possibly drug induced stupors, too many of them were drooling in their sedated states. Most unpleasant he thought. Others were busy playing basic boards games or cards. Some showed similar scorch marks upon their temples to his own. Some chatted in groups, others chatted to themselves. The full spectrum of colourful madness stretched on before him in all its varying shades, shapes and sizes. Within the collage, he spotted the women, clearly there was no segregation of the sexes in this area, however his eyes lingered on none of them for very long. Dishevelled harpies and crones with crooked smiles were among the mass, but each time Ryan saw one he averted him gaze, disgusted to his gut at what he saw.

_Bizarre,_ he pondered. His sexual appetite was not stirred in the slightest despite his knowing full well that outside these walls he indulged in his activities with some less than desirable women, _Has the treatment worked? Do they sicken me now? Perhaps hope is not lost, perhaps-_ he stopped mid thought as his eyes fell upon something that stood out in the sea of bodies.

A beautiful alabaster hue adorned her pale skin, she may have appeared sickly to others but her skin was not tarnished by the grey sallowing that often accompanies disease or malnutrition. Had she been asked, she might have explained her paleness to be the result of a literal sheltered upbringing. Even her many trips abroad with her late father to the heats of Egypt had not placed a single noticeable blotch upon her flesh due to her parent's strict instructions about staying out of the sun and using the shade of a parasol when needed. To some, she may have looked ill.

To Ryan, this tiny creature with fire kissed red hair simply glowed.

He could not take his eyes from her even as the room began to spin with him in the centre, had all the blood in his body suddenly gone to his eyes to take in every detail? He shook his head at the sudden dizziness to regain control of his limbs.

"Jim? Who is that?" Ryan asked his guide.

Jim followed Ryan's gaze, darting past the hags and wandering crazies until he too spotted the young girl sitting alone on the window sill by the corner.

"Oh, that's..." he hesitated, trying to put a name to a face, "I don't know actually," Ryan turned to him, puzzled to finally find the Captain without an answer, "I understand we had a new admission last night, so that must be them,"

Ryan returned his gaze to her and noticed how she seemed to flinch at every unexpected sound, how she kept her eyes fixed on the window, pining for the outdoors just as a caged bird would. He simply could not stop looking at her, she was perfect, absolutely perfect, or at least it would appear that way in comparison to the alternatives. Perhaps it had been too long since he had seen a woman worth looking at. Whatever the reason, he was entranced by the porcelain skinned temptress. He had to go to her, _had_ to talk with her.

He stealthed his way forward, mindful of his actions, his mannerisms. He tried not to stare, it was unsightly and may intimidate the already scared child.

_Just talking,_ he reminded himself as he edged closer, _All you need to do is talk..._

She did not notice his approach, had not noticed him softly apologising to people as he accidentally bumped into them, did not notice how he cursed in frustration under his breath as his pelvis impacted with the corner of a table as he advanced, did not notice how he bit his nails nervously as he approached. All she wanted was to focus on the gardens and the birds that had come there to feed.

_Don't be weird... _"Hello," Ryan managed to utter with as much composure as he could, although to him it was perhaps the creepiest hello he had ever greeted anyone with.

Despite his caution, the girl still jumped at his words and backed herself closer to the wall.

"I'm sorry," Ryan raised his hands defensively, "I... I didn't mean to startle you, I... I just wanted to talk,"

She shifted uncomfortably in her spot, averted her eyes from him and turned back defiantly towards the window, readjusting her garment nervously as she did, _Please don't talk to me, _she thought,wishing her voice could convey the message and hoping body language alone would be enough, _Just leave me alone._

First tentative steps achieved, but with no desired result. Ryan had to think quickly before losing his nerve completely. It had been a long time since he had approached a woman in such a manner, he could not resort to previous methods.

"I, uh... You're new here aren't you?" Perhaps he could use what he already new to initiate a rapport, "I'm sure I would have noticed you before," he lied.

This man did not sound like a lunatic, his tone, his words. It was nothing at all like the other patients who so far had avoided her and those that had not instead spat at or screamed at her. She had quickly found sanctuary in the corner of the room, out of everyone's way. Here she only had to put up with eyes that bore many different emotions glaring at her. Who was this man who now approached her so?

Ryan noticed the momentary relaxation of her shoulders and kept going, "You look a little lost and alone, no one should feel that way," he extended his hand, trying hard to stop it from trembling, "My name is Ryan,"

_Courteous and gentlemanly_, she thought. At last she turned and met his pale blue almost grey eyes, she looked him up and down, taking in his build, height and somewhat messy hair, not too shabby. He wore no shoes, but then again neither did anyone else in here. Mother warned about vagabonds who wore no shoes, they were to be avoided; but if no one wore shoes then how could one tell.

She extended her hand towards him and he took it delicately. Had the circumstances been different he would have kissed her slender knuckles, but something told him this was not an appropriate setting.

"And your name is?" he queried, _Good, keep to the formalities, nothing untoward, nothing sinister, just simple pleasantries._ She was indeed perfect, slender frame, eloquent breeding was revealed from her posture and pose alone, a natural beauty even without makeup, delicate features, a perfectly symmetrical mouth. Ryan smiled inwardly at himself, if he could hold a pleasant conversation with her, if he could just talk about normal things, then perhaps it had worked, perhaps the torturous treatments had in fact been worth every scorch mark. Was that embarrassment that crossed her eyes just now?

She looked away from him.

"What's wrong?" he asked, bending his knees so as to become level with her eyes.

How could she explain when she had no way of explaining? She opened her mouth, but only the faintest whisper of noise was released and abruptly halted by a vocal cracking. She tapped her mouth and throat with her fingers and shook her head at him sadly. She honestly believed that this would be the end of the nice one sided conversation, why would he want to stay if she could not talk to him?

Ryan observed the bizarre gestures she made, trying to decipher what on earth she meant by them and it suddenly dawned on him.

"You're mute?" he asked apologetically, not meaning to offend her.

She could only nod her head in response.

_Dammit!_ This changed everything, how was he supposed to work with this? There had to be a way, some way for her to communicate with him. Ryan's eyes suddenly lit up with an idea.

"Can you write?" he asked, "I can read if you can write,"

Her eyes lit up and Ryan was taken aback by the way they shone in sapphire excitement, she nodded enthusiastically. Why had no one else ever suggested this?

Ryan quickly glanced at the room behind him, catching sight of a currently unoccupied table that held a multitude of colouring pencils and blank paper upon it, two chairs sat either side. It could not have been a more ideal set up, "Come with me," he said and she obliged him.

They sat facing each other with the eagerness of school children. She picked a purple pencil for it was her favourite colour and Ryan placed a blank piece of paper in front of her.

"Now, where were we? Ah yes, your name?" Ryan watched her intently.

Still flabbergasted by the seemingly brilliant yet oh so simple idea, she went to write her name but stopped at remembering her treatment earlier, she pulled a sullen face, wrote what she needed to and passed the paper to Ryan.

He felt a tightening in his gut as he looked at the two numbers she had written, he grabbed a pencil, crossed out the number and slid the paper back to her, "No, your real name, not the number they hand you on entry. I want to know who _you_ are," he urged.

She could not take the smile off her face as she began writing with all the grace she had been taught in school, her calligraphy was breath taking, each letter flowed seamlessly to the next in a series of interconnecting loops and lines. She had thought to put her full name, but then recalled how mother and her doctor had not wanted her identity known. She settled for her first name and gladly showed him what it said.

"Abigail... that's, that's a beautiful name," he said. Looking at her now and how she smiled, it was a name that suited her.

She quickly brought the paper back and began writing again, longer this time, a full sentence, it read, _"It's Hebrew in origin, it means 'My Father is Joy',"_

Ryan could not help the raising of his eyebrows at this, "A beauty and a scholar," he had not expected her to be so educated.

She continued to write, _"Is Ryan an Irish name?"_

His eyes widened and he laughed. His mother had never once said why she had bestowed that name upon him and he certainly did not know his parental heritage, he did not even know his fathers name.

"Truthfully, I don't know," he replied, "I never thought about it,"

For a long time, perhaps even a hour they sat together talking or what could only be described as talking as Abigail consumed sheet after sheet of blank paper with answers to Ryan's questions and her own questions to him in toll, and it felt proper. It felt natural and right, so right to be sat here with this girl with no voice but a world of words at her fingertips.

They respected each others boundaries, neither pressing too hard on subjects the other did not wish to discuss. For Ryan, that was his reason for admitting himself. For Abigail, it was her father.

The noise of patients around them increased and Abigail furrowed her brow as yet another person pushed past her, knocking into her chair as they did.

"Ignore them," Ryan said softly.

"_I do not like it here,"_ she wrote hastily in small letters so as not to be seen by passers-by.

"I don't either,"

"_The people here are mean and nasty. Especially the nurses,"_ she stopped writing to sharpen her pencil once more.

"Yes, they haven't been too kind to me either I'm afraid. But once you're better you can leave here,"

"_Do you think I will get better? Will I be able to talk again?" _

Ryan was not sure how to answer this question. He was ignorant to how mutism was treated and had little understanding of why a person might suddenly develop such a condition seemingly overnight. She had already explained that only six months ago she had been able to speak perfectly well.

He smiled sweetly as he took hold of her hand over the table and looked into her eyes, "I will help you," he assured her and he meant it.

Despite the calm of the moment the two of them sat in, Ryan could not help but be aware of the commotion around them.

What had started the argument one could not say, it could have been as innocent as eye contact or as threatening as a punch; regardless of the initial catalyst, two fellow patients found themselves coming to blows. This in itself was bad enough but made exceedingly worse by how the other surrounding patients responded. The dull crying became shrill, the laughter became hysterical. Some ignored the fight but the external stimulus stirred something within them, many felt compelled to toss away their activities. A Checkers board with many pieces flew across the room.

In what had seemed like mere seconds, the fragile peace had been shattered and from its cracks an eruption of chaos had ensued.

Abigail watched in wide eyed fear the scene, not knowing what to do.

Ryan stood up, scouring the room for the Captain. He could not be seen anywhere. _Blast it!_ Ryan thought as he turned and strangely enough Jim was right behind him, a broad hand coming down on Ryan's shoulder.

"You best flee, Darling," his moustache quivered, "If staff not under my rod arrive, I can't stop them from hauling you back to your cell," Jim left quickly.

Ryan could not risk being caught, recognised. Not when he had come so far.

"I think we should make haste, sweetheart," he whispered to Abigail as he took her hand in his. The pet name he used sent a familiar chill through his body that instinctively stirred his loins.

He made his decision quickly, his particular fetish having granted him an uncanny ability to assess a situation and spot places to run and hide in very limited time.

He pulled Abigail with him as he ran towards a less noticeable door in an alcove, opening it exhibited the tell tale signs of a storage cupboard, a mop and bucket, several brooms. It was small, just large enough to house two people.

Ryan turned back to Abigail with her wide bluer than blue eyes, he smiled coyly before asking, "Do you want to go back to your cell?"

She vehemently shook her head. Ryan's smile grew ever more present, "Then hide with me,"

It had only been a mild excitement but Ryan had quite forgotten the rush of adrenaline he felt from evading capture, for the first time in a long time, he felt alive.

He closed the door just as the orderlies began pouring into the room armed with batons, strait jackets and even syringes.

The two hideaways listened to the ensuing struggle, Abigail with a sense of dread at their predicament, Ryan with cunning. He assessed the sounds.

They stood facing one another. Ryan turned, pressed his forefinger to his lips instructing her to keep quiet but it was in this moment he saw her with different eyes.

The cupboard only afforded the dimmest of light, but it was enough for Ryan to see the heavy rise and fall of Abigail's bosom, her breasts full and evident even under the unsightly garment. She trembled in the dark and due to the strict confines of the space, she trembled against him.

His stomach felt tight at these observations and despite his resolve he found himself unable to force himself away and instead pressed his body closer to hers.

Abigail, so consumed with the commotion outside the tiny space barely noticed this but moved accordingly until her back pressed against the wall.

Ryan closed his eyes, wishing to savour the moment, the warmth of her body against his, the sweet fragrances of her hair. His breaths came deeper now, more prolonged as he raised his hands and placed them on her hips, all the while pushing himself closer.

Only now did Abigail take notice of Ryan's actions, she turned to face him, perplexed as she was.

Ryan's hands slid up her body, taking in every delicious curve and protrusion. He leaned in closer, lightly brushing his lips against hers, teasing himself with the creature he found himself alone with. One hand entangled itself in her hair. He held her close, grinding his hips against her as he buried his face into her neck and proceeded to lick the delicate flesh. His free hand took hold of one of her own and placed it against his groin.

Abigail in her naivety did not know what she was touching and more to the point had no clue as to Ryan's behaviour. Was this his madness? She only knew that the motions of Ryan's body and his rapid breathing were making her feel uncomfortable.

The chaotic din outside slowly reduced to calm as the patients were escorted out of the recreation hall and back to their cells either voluntarily or by forced measures. Roll call was taken as they left. Although many of the staff were lax, they certainly were not stupid and were well aware of how dangerous certain patients could be when provoked.

"That makes twenty-nine," Matron checked off the list as the final patient was removed.

"Is that all Matron?" a stern looking male orderly asked.

"No, Henson, we had thirty of the beasts out today. We're still missing one,"

The tension in the room grew once more as both nurses and orderlies checked over their shoulders.

"Which one?" Henson asked with a shaky voice.

A quick scan of the list verified the missing patient, "Thirty-one. The new one. The mute,"

A collective sigh of relief passed through the staff, at least it was a harmless patient, not prone to violence.

"Well, don't just stand there!" Matron ordered, she straightened her back and held her head high, "Find her. Now!"

They sprung to action having forgotten themselves momentarily.

Despite Ryan's enthusiasm and the now painful throbbing in his groin, he had heard every word spoken outside their hiding place and could hear footsteps approaching. He simply could not risk being caught.

He reluctantly forced his head away from the girl's throat and opened his eyes with an emotional sigh that betrayed the tears that would soon spill, he ran his fingers through Abigail's long hair.

"I'm sorry..." he whispered at the young girl, "Forgive me,"

Ryan opened the door and pushed Abigail out of the cupboard with enough force that she hit the ground hard, she scraped her knee and palms against the rough concrete. She barely had time to register what happened before she was spotted. Ryan had already closed the door.

"Well, well, thirty-one, playing hide and seek were we?" Matron strode towards her with a look on her face similar to one she might have looking at dirt, Ryan's hands had left Abigail's hair wild and her smock in slight disarray, had the circumstances been different this might have been called into question, but at this moment it only made her look like any other patient, "Take her to her cell, gentlemen," she was removed from the hall with no further ceremony.

Ryan remained in the cupboard for a long time even after he was sure he was alone. He found himself unable to move. His muscles felt stiff and he struggled to breathe, the air was heavy and his thoughts raced, much too quickly to make sense of them, but one thing was certain; he had failed.

He slammed his clenched fists against the wall, giving a restrained cry of frustration as he did. He had felt so sure of himself, confident he could resist temptation but now as tears escaped his pale eyes, he had to admit the truth, he had been lying to himself. However, the knowledge of his failure did not stem the flow of other, darker thoughts.

The fragrance of her hair still clung his senses, he was sure the scent was still present on his fingertips, the warmth of her body against his left a phantom sensation all too real. Ryan closed his eyes in an effort to regain control. He began counting from one to ten, just like Doctor Jameson had suggested. The technique had limited success in his cell, now it was futile resistance.

"One..." the images became clearer now behind the haze of erratic thoughts, "Two..." the tiny girl was naked before him, kneeling down with her hands bound behind her back, "Three..." Ryan gritted his teeth, clenching his eyes tight to rid himself of the scene, he saw himself placing a blindfold over her eyes, "Four..." her pretty mouth was gagged to subdue her screams, tears spilled from the confines of the blindfold. He saw himself walking behind her, ignoring the pleading whimpers, forcing her face to the dirty ground and raising her hips to meet his own as she squirmed in his clutches, "Five..." he managed in a breathless whisper. Ryan never made it to 'six'. He unclenched his fists, fell to his knees and while still sobbing he played out the entirety of the gruesome fantasy. He began to pleasure himself.

Several hours passed before Jim finally found his young ward, easy though once he located where the sobbing came from.

"Jesus H Fucking Christ," the disdain in his voice was clear at the sight of Ryan cowering in the corner, "What the _fuck_ happened to you, you great poofter?"

Ryan struggled with the words, as though saying would solidify everything he dreaded, "I failed,"

"Never mind that. We've got five minutes to get you back to your cell. Get up, you ninney!" Jim scoffed, he reached forward to place his arms to Ryan, he lifted him with little effort to his feet, slinging Ryan's left arm over his thick neck, "No man left behind, huh Darling?"


	5. Ch5: Come Into The Light

**Chapter 5**

**Come Into The Light**

Jim stayed with Ryan in his cell, peering out through the shutter in the door as Ryan sat upon his bed, his left leg fidgeting nervously. He was furious with himself, he had let himself believe and hope for a moment that perhaps the tortures corrected his behaviour. It had seemed so pure, so perfectly innocent to be talking that with the girl, it was normal, it was pleasant, how had it all gone so wrong in only a fraction of a second?

"Looks like things are starting to settle now," Jim spoke in a hushed voice, Ryan did not raise his head, "I would advice you not leave your cell again tonight though, too many keen eyes about,"

"You don't have to worry about that," Ryan said with a voice that betrayed his feelings, "I'm not leaving this cell, ever again,"

Jim turned sharply and was about to object strongly to this but spied the would be pretender and his involuntary actions. He twisted his lip beneath his moustache and reached to retrieve something from his pocket.

_I was promised a Beast, not a weeping wreck,_ he thought, he snapped his fingers to get Ryan's attention. It worked, Ryan lifted his eyes and Jim rewarded the response by throwing a cigarette in his direction. Jim smirked wickedly, the action again hidden under his well groomed facial hair. He brought the pipe to his lips. Desperate men were so easily trained, _Like feeding a fucking seal._

Ryan lit his cigarette with trembling hands and Jim came closer.

"So you had a little relapse, no harm done," he sat on the bed beside the young lad he had taken on, a little too close perhaps, "Why, if everyone in here fled to their rooms every time they fell back into old habits, the halls would be empty," he placed a large firm hand on Ryan's leg which at first he took for a reassuring gesture, he was quickly shaken from that idea when he felt Jim's hand massaging his inner thigh and moving over so slowly upwards.

Ryan pulled himself away roughly, what was this? It felt unnatural. He stared into Jim's dark eyes, eyes that bore down in a way that would bring weaker men to their knees with its intensity. At last he took in the entirety of the man, his monstrous size, the leatheriness of his weathered skin, the callouses on his hands, everything spoke of him being a hardworking seaman, someone who had toiled amongst his men doing dirty jobs as well as commanding them. Ryan noticed the scars adorning his hands and encircling his fingers, fairly typical scars considering his occupation, but he noticed other scars, not so easily recognised; but Ryan could recognise them, scars that he himself carried, scars upon forearms, upon the throat and upper chest, Ryan suspected that they ran the length of his chest.

"Why are you here?" he asked, suddenly aware that Jim had successfully managed to avoid the question several times already.

Jim stood slowly and strode with enormous confidence across the span of the small cell, his broad shoulders flexing, "We are not so different you and I," he started, "We share a common interest. I've been waiting a long time to finally meet the famed Beast of Camden,"

Ryan had not taken his eyes off the Captain, watching every little nuanced movement, "You read my report?" he was hardly surprised.

"I merely scoured through the important parts, Hell, I do it on everyone. I found your described methods and kinks to be... interesting. We are brothers of the same sin,"

Realising that his leg had stopped twitching with its incessant movement Ryan rose from the bed and addressed Jim's back, "You... You rape too?"

"I suppose you could call it that, yes,"

It were as if his heart leapt to his throat, this man was like him, shared the same responses he felt, he had never met another person like himself, a kindred spirit, someone who understood the plight and yet someone who walked these halls as if he owned them. He had so many questions to ask suddenly; how many did you enjoy? Did you keep count? Did you regret it? Did you feel like a God every time you forced yourself inside them? He settled on a simple question as he took a long calming inhale on his cigarette.

"Did you have a preference?" he asked, "I mean, were there particular women you found yourself drawn to?" Ryan himself preferred them dark haired beauties and all the more satisfying if they were virgins.

Jim turned, a sickening look had crossed his face and bore outwards from his eyes, "Women?" he literally spat at the presumption, "Don't be so obnoxious my dear boy!" Jim wretched and Ryan could not tell if it had been a genuine response or a theatrical one, "Let me put it simply for you. I like 'em young... I like 'em male,"

The full gravity of the words fell upon Ryan slowly, they made his legs weak and the blood drain from his face. This man was not like him at all, this man was... he was...

"A homosexual. You?" his voice all but a whisper.

Pipe clasped firmly between his teeth the Captain smiled broadly. He laughed and clapped his hands in slow but loud applause, "Finally! The Beast understands!"

Ryan traced back through his memory, he had heard about men like this, had heard stories but could never place a time when he would have met one. They were to be abhorred, they were despised by the church and society as a whole. It suddenly made sense why this fabled sea captain with an unsullied and exceptional record was dishonourably discharged from naval duty without so much as a rumour as to the reason why. It explained why such a man had been institutionalised, the practice of homosexuality or sexual indecency as it was known, was a criminal offence.

Ryan backed himself away slowly, "You're sick..."

"Says the man who fucked five women to death?"

Ryan pointed an accusing finger as he spat the next insult, "No. What you do is unnatural!"

"And what you do_ isn't_, I suppose?" Jim scoffed.

Ryan had no response to that.

"You and I, are the same," Jim advanced a step, Ryan backed away, "We rape. We kill. We take what we want, we see pretty, pretty things and we _take_ them," He looked Ryan up and down with predatory eyes, "You're a pretty boy, aren't you,"

_Oh God, is that how I looked to them?_ Ryan gulped but refused to show his increasing apprehension, _Are those the same eyes I used? Is this how it feels to be the victim? _As Jim came closer, he suddenly felt very sorry for the poor women he had assaulted.

Ryan was strong, strong enough to fight a man his size, possibly two if the adrenaline levels peaked, but he was certainly no match for a man the size of the Captain.

Before he had time to comprehend the situation, he found himself pressed face first into the wall, an enormous weight holding him in place, a vice like grip held his left arm at an awkward angle behind his back, his right arm held against the wall. Something kicked his legs apart. A hot breath hit his neck.

_Is this how it felt?_

"This must be a weird sensation for you, huh? Being the victim?" Jim hissed into his ear. Ryan struggled and spat abuse, but there was no freeing himself from this, "Ah, there it is, the Beast everyone spoke of,"

He could feel the pressure behind him, the slow gyrating of hips upon his own, "Fuck you,"

"Oh, is that a promise, darling?" Jim sniggered, keeping a firm hold of his captive, "I prefer my boys when they're unwilling, much the same way you prefer your girls, yes?"

Ryan tried turning his head, resorting to the only weapon he had left, his own jaws. He snarled and lashed at the air with ferocity, trying with all his might to turn enough to injure his predator. It was to no avail.

"I've taken larger men than you, Beast," Jim whispered, holding him still "I've _killed_ stronger men than you were my bare hands. I could take you right now if I wanted to," he released Ryan slowly, only when he was sure he would not struggle further, "But I'm not going to,"

Ryan turned quickly, pushing the large man away with as much strength as he had, it barely phased the bulky frame.

Retrieving his pipe from the floor, he leaned against the wall and fished out tobacco from his pocket. He began refilling the pipe as he spoke, "Do you know why they keep us in here, lad?"

Ryan's head was still spinning from the ordeal, he struggled to understand the words and the suddenly calm demeanour that had overcome his attacker.

"Logically, it would only be correct for them to hand us over to the authorities; you a self proclaimed murderer and rapist of women and myself, a self proclaimed poofter with a murder record the length of your erect cock. So why haven't we faced the hangman's noose yet?"

Ryan hand not thought about it much to be fair, but now he did find himself pondering the 'why' of it all. He rubbed his sore arms and paced the cell, but did not answer the Captain.

"Because, they can't," came the answer as though it were obvious, "Think about it. Why did you come here? A cure was it?" Ryan kept silent, "I was brought here for analysis, a way for those men in their fancy white coats to discern a reason behind my behaviour and potentially cure me of it. I was only supposed to be here six months. It's been four years now by my count. They can't hand us over to the police because they've broken the law by having us here in the first place, the whole bloody shambles of an institution would fall around them if the police knew we had been kept here,"

At last Ryan spoke as he rested his back against the wall facing Jim with hard eyes, "Is that how you've come to acquire the staff as your lackeys?"

Jim lit his pipe, "Not necessarily. You see, lad, I'm proud of who I am and what I've done. There are certain folks in here who share my particular quirk, excusing the murder side of it of course. Certain staff members who hide their desires well by day, but by night..." he took a satisfactory puff on his pipe, "You catch my drift? They couldn't very well reveal my escapades without endangering their own lives, they would have to admit that they take it up the Khyber Pass,"

"Interesting euphemism. So you have all but a few under your thumb, what do you need me for?"

Jim was ready now to reveal his hand, he had everything in place and the threat to solidify them, "It has become too much of a burden for one man to manage," he began, "Everyone knows who you are already, I've seen them tip-toeing past on cell on a morning, you're enough of a threat by your very presence, I need you to be my commanding officer, my first mate, my right hand man if you will,"

Ryan thought briefly about the alternatives, the thought of being stuck in here again with no means of escape and possibly even becoming the Captain's plaything in his lonely hours was not a thought that filled him with joy having already been witness to his strength.

"If I do this, you will allow me access to the hospital, its grounds, its patients?" he mind wandered briefly to the fiery haired temptress, "I won't be harassed by the staff?"

"I will be sure to point out the ones you need to take care around, Matron is one of them of course and a Mr Henson who usually follows her about, insufferable wretch of a man, no good for canon fodder. I'll let you know the others soon. Quid pro quo, darling, you help me out around here and you will want for nothing. You can be as comfortable here as I am," at last he reached to his pockets to retrieve articles he had held back until the deal was sealed. He cast a full packet of tobacco upon Ryan's bed, assuring him that the added extras were included and strode forward, presenting Ryan with an ivory switch blade, "A gift to celebrate our allegiance, I believe it was confiscated from yourself upon your arrival,"

Ryan took it, feeling the familiar weight settle in his hand like an old friend, he triggered the blade and smiled slightly at watching the blade glisten in the dim light, it felt warm to the touch, just as he remembered it always had done.

"Where are my manners?" Jim asked and went to leave the cell, he placed an iron hand on Ryan's shoulder, patting it as he did, "Think about it, I'll await your answer in the morning," he unlocked the door and stepped outside.

"Seven," Ryan said suddenly, Jim stopped from closing the door to look at his protégé with a quizzical stare, Ryan looked at him with darkened eyes, "I fucked _seven_ women to death," he uttered with a hint of pride in his voice.

The Captain smiled joyfully, closed and locked the door


	6. Ch6: I'm No Good

**Chapter 5**

**I'm No Good**

"Number eleven, stand facing the wall with your hands against it!"

Ryan stirred in a momentary sense of disassociation, unable to place where he was briefly before the familiar scents and sounds assaulted his senses once more. Had he been sleeping? In his bed? Strange, he had never slept so soundly in this room as he had this past night, he had always been awake well before the chime of the six o'clock bells. Not today though and it surprised him.

"Wakey, wakey, eleven. Not like you to oversleep, is it?" that same morning voice greeted him.

Dragging himself out of bed and walking across to the wall, he yawned and stretched to greet the morning gladly, even taking a glance at the shutter in his door to make eye contact with the guard,

"Good morning, sir," he spoke with a sleepy satisfaction, "You do spoil me so with my breakfast brought to my room, might I ask if you brought me the days paper too?"

Puzzled by this new demeanour and cocky attitude the guard tapped his truncheon against the door three times to remind the patient that he was armed and prepared to use force if necessary, "Don't get lippy, eleven, just do as you're asked," he noticed the clean clothing and freshly shaven face, but chose to ignore these as perhaps another staff member had thought to clean the foul thing of his stench, about time too.

"Yes sir," he responded with a sly smirk as he placed his hands against the wall.

He heard the unlocking of the door, it opening and the sound of a single kitten heel taking a step into the cell, "Oh Nurse," Ryan quipped, bringing the usual routine of the morning to an edgy halt, "I think I'd like a sponge bath today, would you be so obliging? We can play a game of 'find the soap',"

He knew it was coming before it happened, but he relished the satisfaction at making them uncomfortable. The truncheon found his ribs with a hard smack bringing Ryan to his hunches painfully. As he nursed the area, he heard the familiar sounds of a bowl hitting the ground and a much more hurried than usual rush to leave the cell.

"Thank you, sir, may I have another?" he jibed through the still open shutter before it was closed.

It did not take long for the hustle of the breakfast rush to start and Ryan waited patiently for the mass to pass by with their hushed voices past his cell. He wanted to see Abigail again and every soft footstep outside his cell was potentially her passing, blissfully unaware that he lay behind a door that should not be opened.

He had thought about it long into the night. Yes, he would use his influence and infamy to assist the Captain with his errands and control of the hospital, but that would not stop him from trying to talk with her again. Perhaps yesterday was just as Jim had said, a relapse, nothing serious. The circumstances had been against him at the time, he had been too enthusiastic and too sure of himself, this was something that would require small steps to walk a mile. He was sure he could conquer this if he had the resolve and the determination, but he had to be careful, not place himself in a situation he could not control.

He was sure she was the ideal candidate to test himself with. She was beautiful and youthful. A perfect temptation that he had to resist… but first he had to see her again. He had to explain himself to her, what his actions yesterday had meant. Not the truth; that would be a poor choice, no, better to make an excuse, something she would believe.

At last he heard the shutter to his cell slide open, but instead of a voice or the sight of those wild eyes, a hand slipped through the gap and subtly dropped a key through before disappearing back into the hallway.

He picked it up, concluding correctly that it must be the key to his own cell. The Captain must surely be a man certain of his decisions to allow him a key of his own so early in the game. Ryan waited another two minutes before finally having the satisfaction of unlocking and opening his own door for the first of many times to come.

As expected, the breakfast hall was full of life, only a momentary silence fell over the populace as they each laid their eyes upon him, a few pestering whispers were heard. Most were already sitting on the long benches that aligned the equally long tables in rows that spanned the length of the hall. Row after row of patients in various states of dementia all looked at him, even those who perhaps should not have noticed such a thing within their delusions.

"Ah, Ryan, do come join us," he heard a voice and followed it to where the Captain stood proud upon the bench so as to be seen from a distance. The chatter of the hall quickly resumed, and the orderlies retreated from their advances after this as Ryan ventured forth, squeezing himself past bodies that forced themselves out of his way to reach his destination.

He sat down opposite the Captain who reached out his hand and shook it with a vice like grip, "Good to see you, my boy," he cheered.

Taking a sideways glance, he noticed the young man beside him. Smythie, with a meagre meal of grey slop very similar to the one delivered to his own cell, but perhaps a slightly more appetising shade of grey and a single piece of stale looking bread.

"Well, don't just sit there Smyth, let the man have something to eat,"

Smythie looked up from his meal with an indignant look that did not stick to his eyes when he looked at the Captain. He was about to remind the Captain that the canteen was closed already but then realised what Jim had meant with the order. He wanted so strongly to object but fell silent with a fallen jaw, he knew well that it was unwise to argue. Begrudgingly, he slid his bowl and bread over to Ryan and instead lit the cigarette he kept behind his ear.

Aware of the uncomfortable situation between the two, Ryan took the ill-gotten meal and savoured the bread at least. He felt a pang of guilt over Symthie's predicament, he looked as though he would keel over with malnutrition at any moment.

Conversation was for the most part controlled by Jim who filled in the gaps about a few other necessary bits of information he had not had the opportunity to divulge yesterday. Ryan was only half listening as he was more focused on catching sight of the girl who had caught his attention yesterday, but the mass of bodies in the hall made it nearly impossible, if she was here she was well hidden. He hoped she was not hiding from him, although that would not surprise him if she were.

Smythie rose to leave, excusing himself from the table and left the hall hungry.

"Don't fret yourself about him," Jim said, "He'll find something to eat. You know they don't lock the staff rooms for some reason, perhaps he'll find a sandwich in there. He can take care of himself. Besides, he has things to collect,"

"Such as?" Ryan queried with a full mouth and still wandering eyes.

"Oh, nothing of any importance, just some notes on our latest admission,"

This caught Ryan's attention, "Abigail?"

"So that's her name, is it?" Jim retrieved his pipe and began filling it, "It's been a while since we had someone that young in here, what is she, sixteen, seventeen years?" Jim was clearly uninterested in the particulars for obvious reasons, he was just making conversation at this point.

"I believe she's eighteen," Ryan responded.

"Legal then, that's for sure. I wonder how many of the staff know that?" Jim pondered.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, young thing like that and… pretty… I suppose, if you're into that sort of thing," he lit his pipe and let the embers burn for a moment with a long inhale before puffing out a proud plume above them, "She'll be quite _popular_ if you get my drift,"

Ryan did not have to question what he meant, he knew exactly what was implied by that statement and suddenly found what little appetite he had gone. Now he felt he could not wait any longer, he had to find Abigail. A place so lax in security could not protect her, in a place like this, only he could.

He made his excuses to Jim and left, tapping on the switch blade concealed in his pocket reassuringly.

She was nowhere to be seen in the dining hall, he made sure of it, perhaps she had left early, perhaps she had been equally repulsed by the food as he was.

He ventured through the corridors, checking rooms as he went. He recalled hearing Matron call her by her number, thirty-one, and if Jim was accurate in his directions that meant her cell was upstairs but according to Jim, patients were not allowed back to their cells except under special circumstances.

He attempted to head towards the Chapel and Recreation Hall at the other end of the building. Turning a corner, he spotted the frail sight of Symthie. He was looking through a wooden door cracked open just a little and engrossed with listening to the room within to be sure no one was there to spot his snooping.

Not wishing to draw attention to the situation but equally wishing to get the young man's attention Ryan uttered a harsh, "Psst!" at him. Smythie did not hear it. Ryan tried again, slightly louder this time. Smythie spun round, expecting to get a beating from an orderly. He put his hand to his chest as the breath came back to it. Although he was not sure if seeing Ryan was better or worse than seeing an orderly. He came over hurriedly with a bowed head, he tipped an invisible cap to Ryan.

"Yes gov', can I 'elp at all?"

Ryan was caught off guard, it was the first time he had heard Smythie speak and the accent was an assault on his ears. It was cockney, but hard to place, the inflections were all wrong. It did not take Ryan long to decipher why.

"You can cut the act," he said sternly.

"Sir?" Smythie looked up but still tried not to make eye contact.

"I grew up in London, I've been most places the Capital has to offer and no one speaks with that accent even in the slums I grew up in, so stop it."

Caught in the act at last, Smythie went to try again with the characterisation but was stopped by the way Ryan raised his eyebrow, "Oh, alright, you caught me. It's a fair cop," he sighed and seemed to change in appearance as finally he stopped slumping his posture and stood straight almost matching Ryan in height. His eyes sparkled with an intelligence behind them that Ryan was sure had not been there a moment ago. His voice settled into a neutral tone, one that gave away no hint of his background, "Don't tell the Captain though, will you?"

"Why the façade?"

It was Smythie's turn to smirk, "It's better to have people think you're a fool than to open your mouth and prove it. The simpleton act works wonders in that regard, no one takes your exploits seriously. I'd be locked away properly if they knew I wasn't just an old seaman's lackey,"

It was a fair point and one that Ryan took on board. He wondered if the bruising on Smythie's bare arms was a testament to the treatment he had already suffered.

"And… the Captain?" he queried.

The smirk left Smythie's face before he spoke quietly, "It's better to be the right hand of the Devil, than in his path…"

Ryan understood that all too well. They were both in the same predicament. He would not ask Smythie if he had received a similar threat at Jim's hands, some things were better left unsaid.

"Have you seen Abigail?" Smythie looked confused, "The new girl, the mute?"

He shrugged, "Can't say I have this morning. The Captain wants her notes hence why I'm here, but I haven't seen her today. Have you checked the Chapel?"

Ryan focused his gaze ahead, recalling the journey from yesterday in his mind, "If you see her, let me know,"

Smythie simply nodded his response obediently. Even now he wished not to offend anyone. To him, Ryan was equally as much of a devil as the Captain. He would equally become Ryan's right hand to avoid the wrath that lay behind those pale blue eyes.

"Is there anything else you need today?" he asked gently. Hoping it would be something easily obtainable.

Ryan started to walk away, "Do they have any of those tiny blackboards in here? Like the ones you might find in a school?"

"I believe so, yes. In the art room I think,"

Ryan did not look back as he continued his walk towards the Chapel, "Bring me one. And chalk too," he ordered with a tone of command. A tone that he enjoyed using. A tone of voice that felt like himself.

The Chapel doors were open and within an air of dust and disuse clung to every surface. A small room with a few pews aligned symmetrically on either side. Draperies, dark, thick velvet that were once a stark contrast against the white walls, now hung limp, sun bleached and moth ridden. They hung across the windows, blocking out the view. The only light seemed to come from the single flame from the votive candle rack beside the lecturn.

Ryan entered, feeling a discomforting chill as he ran his fingers upon the pews to gather their dust and looking at the solid oak crucifix upon the wall ahead of him. Ryan gave the image a hard glare. He had not forgiven God for His misdeeds. Perhaps he never would.

_What a waste_, he thought at looking at the empty abandonment of this place. It was not at all like the church he remembered from a time he would rather forget. This was falling into ruin.

"My son?" a voice came from behind him, "Do you wish to pray?" the voice stirred something inside Ryan. It was a voice that begged and seemingly clawed its way to the forefront of his mind. It was a voice he never thought he would ever hear again. He turned slowly to see the image of a man aged beyond his time. Had time really worn so hard upon his face?

The eyes in the man's eyes flashed with recognition, they both brightened and saddened simultaneously.

"Ryan…?" he asked cautiously, not daring to believe that it was surely the same lad he knew so well.

A wave of something Ryan could not describe flooded over him, something akin to the shock of nostalgia, the warmth at seeing an old friend, the sadness at having to face them after all that had happened.

In an instant the two were embraced tightly. Neither wishing to let the other go. A single tear escaped Ryan's eye as he squeezed the older man as tightly as he could. The intensity was returned tenfold.

"I thought you were dead," Father McGuire said softly.

"And I thought you were still back at St Bartholomew's," he said, referring to the small church he remembered. At last they broke the hold of each other, and they took in the sight of one another, "You're the visiting minister?"

"Part-time duties these days, I'm afraid. Getting too old for the Church," the old priest jested, "But, look at you, what on Earth are you…?" he trailed off as the realisation took hold and the sadness returned once again to his eyes, "Oh, my boy,"

Ryan averted his eyes in his shame, "I'm… I'm a patient here,"

Silence fell upon them. Both men trying to decide what should be said. At last, Father McGuire spoke.

"After the, uh… incident… with -"

Ryan stopped him before he could speak the name he knew was on the man's tongue, "I came here not long afterwards. I roamed the streets for some time after that. I… I did… I did some terrible things. Unspeakable things. I came here voluntarily,"

Father McGuire chose not to press Ryan further on the matter. It was enough that he was here and safe. It had not escaped his attention that Ryan had so quickly changed the subject. He suspected rightly so that perhaps the wounds were still very deep and painfully raw. If Ryan wished to confess then he would do it in his own time.

"God is glad you came here, my son. And so am I," he placed a reassuring hand on Ryan's shoulder.

The words meant nothing, but the gesture meant everything.

Behind the priest, movement caught Ryan's attention. The door to a secluded confessional booth cracked open. So shrouded in shadow Ryan had not noticed it until now.

"Have I interrupted something?" he asked.

McGuire turned and noticed the door, "No, I think we were done for the day. Come on out, my child. You have nothing to fear," his voice was softly spoken to whoever hid themselves.

Delicate fingers emerged first. So pale and thin against the dark wood of the confessional door they held. She stepped out timidly and saw both the friendly priest and a familiar face.

She smiled sweetly but uncomfortably at them both.

"Ryan, have you met our latest resident?" McGuire asked him.

At seeing her, he could not help the smile that crossed his face, "Yes, we met yesterday,"

She held in her hands a stack of papers and a pencil she had managed to get from the art room. She hoped no one would mind her using them. It wasn't stealing was it? How else was she supposed to repent if she couldn't speak? The priest had been so kind and understanding of her condition. From the moment she had passed the first note to him explaining that she had no voice but wished to confess he had welcomed her and her condition. Perhaps if God saw her repenting for her sins, He would give her voice back.

Father McGuire reached out to Abigail and she stepped closer to him, "Abigail. I know things have been a bit turbulent these last few days but let me assure you that this young man here," he reached his other hand towards Ryan, "Is a good man. I think you too would be very good for each other. Supportive and helpful. I think you both could use a friend in here,"

If Ryan needed any more assurance that Father McGuire had not seen his records, then this was it. Surely the elderly priest would not instruct a young girl to liaise with him if he knew what history had led him to this place.

Abigail relaxed. If the priest had such kind things to say about this young man, then her worries about his behaviour were unfounded. A man of God would not put her in danger, would he? He was right though; she needed a friend. She felt so dreadfully lonely. She did not want to feel lonely anymore.

Father McGuire looked at both of them and smiled. The young girl needed someone understanding and patient to help her. She needed someone she could depend on, someone who could keep her protected. The young man needed someone to listen to him. A gentle hand to remind him of a warmer time and a reminder that there was a place for second chances in this world. Potentially, God willing, they would find each other in their own darkness.

"Ryan, perhaps you would be kind enough to show Abigail around. I'm sure she would appreciate it,"

It was almost as if the old man were blessing the union, Ryan thought. Luckily, Ryan had been given the tour already and felt confident to guide Abigail. He would lie through his teeth to keep up the façade. There was no reason for her to ever know why he was here.

"I would be happy to," he said to both of them, "We didn't get a chance yesterday. Thank you, Father,"

McGuire patted Abigail on the shoulder kindly as though giving his permission for her to leave. She dutifully left with Ryan.


	7. Ch7: Meet The Other Side

**Chapter 7**

**Meet The Other Side**

"I suppose I should apologise for yesterday," Ryan said as they took a seat together on the bottom steps of the staircase. He began rolling himself a cigarette, "I'm not sure how to explain what I did to you,"

Abigail watched him with large eyes, watched as he made his cigarette. She had only ever seen her father smoke. He had smoked fat cigars that would fog a room and make her cough if she ventured to his study. She was brought back from her memories by the way Ryan licked the paper to seal the cigarette, so quick, blink and you missed it. Daddy had never done that; his cigars were ready made, straight out of the box. Very strange.

She took a scrap of paper and wrote on it. She passed the note to Ryan.

"_Is that part of your illness? Is that why you're here?"_

He looked at her. Looked into her innocent eyes that seemed to beg him for answers to all her questions. It dawned on him then. She did not know what he had done. She didn't understand what it meant.

_She's a virgin…?_ Ryan shook himself from the thought. He had to stop himself thinking like this. He swore he would never look at anyone the way Jim had looked at him last night.

"In a way, yes it is," her eyes were without judgement, perhaps he could skirt around the issue, "I have a… a hard time being around women. It causes me to… behave strangely. That's why I'm here," it was not exactly a lie, was not the entire truth either.

Abigail could understand that. If that was his reaction to women then no wonder he was in here, it had made her uncomfortable and undoubtedly it made other women uncomfortable too. His behaviour just needed correcting, just like her own. But she would be patient with him, perhaps he just needed a friend to understand and not be repelled by it. She could be that friend to him, she was sure. If he had been so nice as to sit with her and talk with someone who could not talk back, the least she could do was offer the same politeness.

"_It's alright,"_ she wrote, _"I'll help you. We can help each other,"_ she smiled sweetly at him.

So sweet. So naïve. So innocent. It killed him inside to see her smile. So blissfully unaware of the man he was, the things he had done in his past. What was worse? The fact that she smiled at him or the fact that a part of him wished to put that mouth to the test?

Ryan forced himself to look away from her; catching a glimpse of Smythie down the corridor, beckoning him.

Abigail looked down at the floor. She hoped she had not upset Ryan in some way.

"Wait here a moment," he said without looking at her. He rose to his feet and walked the length of the hall to meet Smythie around the corner. Abigail watched him as he went, hoping he would not be long. She played with a lock of her hair between her fingers and bit her lip with anxiety at her sudden loneliness. Every sound in the building was suddenly amplified. A distant scream somewhere to her left where the treatment rooms lay. The shrill cackle of a lunatic upstairs from one patient who had refused to get dressed this morning and been confined to their cell. She heard voices approaching but they were coming from the direction opposite to the one Ryan had gone.

Smythie was as good as his word. Once Ryan came to view he pulled a small chalkboard from beneath his shirt and frisked himself in urgency to find a selection of chalk pieces in various lengths hiding in his pockets.

Ryan watched him in wordless awe as the man seemed to produce items from thin air. You would not have thought Smythie was carrying anything at all under that oversized garment. He wondered if Smythie intentionally kept his figure slim in order to aid in his stealing. Ryan thanked him which Smythie had not expected. It had been a long time since anyone had thanked him for anything, the words came as a shock.

"I want them put in room thirty-one upstairs, understand?" Ryan was delighted with the gifts the thief had acquired; he would have to think of a suitable reward for the nimble-fingered thief. He would indeed come in handy later.

Smythie nodded in response and waited for Ryan to return back to the mute girl so as to distract her.

Both were caught off guard by the sound of voices advancing.

They looked at each other, trying to decipher the words and the carriers of said voices. Were they guards or patients? Neither man dare move until they had determined which. Neither wished to be caught; Smythie in the act of stealing and Ryan out of his cell. Ryan furrowed his brow at Smythie who could only shrug his shoulders in his equal confusion, he quickly and quietly pushed the chalk pieces back into his pockets.

Ryan's muscles were tensed. He set himself ready to run. Until he heard a clear sentence that made his gut drop.

"Well, hello there, sweetie pie,"

The voice was unpleasant to her ears. It sounded common. Mother had warned her about commoners; they were dirty and had head lice. She certainly didn't want to catch lice.

She could see them approaching from the peripheral of her vision. Three pairs of bare feet riddled with a layer of dirt on the soles and between the toes. She kept her head down. Maybe they were talking to someone else?

One set of feet stopped and turned to face her. She clutched her papers to her chest uncomfortably.

"Ah, look, she's shy," that same unpalatable delivery came, "It's the one I told you about, Hugh. I spotted her getting her initiation shower,"

"Scrubs up well, doesn't she?" another voice spoke, slightly softer in tone but no less jarring, "You alright darling?"

She kept her eyes away from theirs. Mother told her not to talk to strange men. These men seemed very strange with their peculiar voices and words that made no sense. What did 'scrubs up well' mean?

The larger of the three men turned towards the smaller of their group, "Billy, keep an eye out,"

Billy, who suffered with a nervous tick that jarred his head in sharp movements to the right and caused his right eye to squint involuntarily acknowledged the order by nodding, he sucked a dribble of saliva from his bottom lip back into his mouth.

Hugh knelt down to become level with the girl on the stairs.

Abigail looked up briefly to see a face disfigured by a scar running the length of his face on the left side. Whatever weapon had caused it had narrowly missed the man's eye. She felt unwell looking at it but had never seen such a mark before, she found it difficult to take her eyes off it. He had a purposefully shaven head and she could not see any lice on his scalp.

Hugh had been diagnosed with melancholia after a period of excessive drinking had left him penniless and homeless. He feigned an improved mental state in the presence of doctors and nurses to avoid the torturous methods they used to cure his depression, but his apathy had not deteriorated. He was only in the halls now with his 'friends' because they had made him move from his comfortable spot. His friend, Ed, had told him of an attractive girl in the hospital and hoped it would pique his interest. Indeed, it had.

They had suggested if his appetite for food and fun had left him, then why not see if he still had appetites of the flesh. If it would shut them up, then it would be worth it. She was certainly attractive. He was sure he could manage it if she were compliant, if she touched and kissed him, he might even enjoy it.

He reached to her face to move the hair from her eyes but stopped at someone tapping his shoulder. He turned, Ed was still, aside from the frantic tapping motion but he faced the other way towards a man in the hall who stood like stone, silhouetted against the morning sun.

Hugh quickly stood up and backed away from the girl on the stairs. He had a feeling he had done something wrong but could not be sure what. He squinted and his eyes grew large as he saw the mane of black hair, those steely cold eyes and clenched fists. His scar began to itch uncontrollably.

"Haven't you gentlemen got somewhere else to be?" Ryan asked coldly as he stared them down.

At last Billy joined the group. He ran towards his friends. His tick excessively worse than before, "We were just leaving, weren't we lads?" he dragged Hugh away by his sleeves.

Ryan turned his attention to the girl on the stairs, "Let's go, Abigail," he said.

Relieved that he had appeared when he did she squeezed herself past the men, towards Ryan and his waiting hand which she took in her own.

Mother would be most upset if she spotted her holding hands with a man. Right now, that was irrelevant. She wished she could tell her friend, thank you. Her fingers loosened at seeing the darkness that had suddenly come over Ryan's face, she almost didn't recognise him, was he angry?

"Go on ahead, I'll catch up," he said softly to her.

Obligingly she did so, catching one last glimpse at Hugh's ugly scar and spotting a regretful sadness in his eyes that she had not seen earlier.

Once she was out of earshot, Ryan advanced on the three men.

"You stay away from her, do you understand me?"

"Sorry," Hugh started, "We… I didn't know she was yours," he apologised.

Ryan straightened his back, feeling a tension in his shoulders, "She's not mine… we're just friends," the words sounded unnatural on his tongue but he was glad they came out. He turned to leave.

"He's gone soft," Ed muttered.

Ryan stopped dead in his tracks. Hugh and Billy took a cautious step backwards.

"What did you say?" he asked sarcastically.

"Who are you to say we can't talk to people?" Ed stepped forward much to the dismay and hushed objections of his two accomplices who tried to hold him back, "Call yourself a beast? You're nothing but a deviant. Only attacking vulnerable women. Bet you couldn't handle assaulting a man, could you?"

A small smirk appeared on Ryan's lips as he turned. He only had to take a single casual step closer to be in Ed's face.

No warning was given, no flash from the eyes, no awkward movement, not even the slightest flitter of the smirk left Ryan's lips before he had Ed face down on the ground, his hands held tightly behind his back by Ryan's weight pressing on them. Ed had gone strangely quiet by the surprise attack, he even held back his grunts of pain as Ryan leant close to his ear.

"I merely pay women a lot more attention when I kill them… It's something to delight in as they squirm. It means nothing to me to kill a man," the voice was like rolling liquid, warm and coursing with energy, "If I see you or anyone else trying to talk to her, I will _destroy _you," the struggle stirred him, sent a wave of adrenaline through his veins. It made him feel alive, so very alive.

At last he relinquished his hold and stood up. Hugh and Billy scooped up their fallen friend from the ground. Billy's tick was near uncontrollable now, his head and eye twitching spasmodically over and over again. They hastened away and Ryan watched them do so. He took in a deep breath to savour the feeling of power that crashed in vast waves against his heart. A feeling that awakened a part of him. A feeling he had forgotten. A long-buried nostalgia that tightened his loins. Very quickly though, the euphoria was followed by repulsion and disgust. He had to grip the wall for support.

_No, that's not who I am... not anymore... not anymore..._

It took several deep breaths before he felt able to stand again.

_Just a relapse,_ he assured himself. It would pass. He hurried off to find the crimson haired beauty he had officially laid his claim to. Hopefully now there would be no further contention from other patients.

They spent the rest of the day together, only separating at seven o'clock for dinner as Ryan needed to be back in his cell for inspection. Lights out at nine o'clock.

Abigail had eaten little of her meal that evening beside the bread provided. She would make a mental note to discuss this with Doctor Thompson when he came for a visit, surely there could be better prepared meals especially on an evening. If truth be told, she was happy to go back to her cell after dinner.

Others had left the hall with her and began walking back to their cells. Some friendlier ones said goodnight to their fellow patients. Abigail waved to her neighbour before entering her own cell.

_To sleep, perchance to dream,_ she thought. She closed her door and spotted something propped up against her pillow, _What is that?_

This time Smythie was better than his word. Having realised that Ryan was spellbound by the mute, he hoped the Beast's attention would be more focused on her than himself. And what better way to do that then to help the predator lure his prey. A quick reach through an open window had garnered the prize.

A small blackboard just like one she had used in school lay against the pillow, a selection of chalk stacked neatly beneath it. Atop the blackboard, contrasting beautifully against the dark background, a single white rose in the initial stages of bloom lay.

_Love From Ryan,_ had been written in a delicate hand on the board. Ryan though, had never touched the board.

_I don't believe this,_ she smiled as she admired her gifts. They were perfect, a succinct method of communication for her to use and a beautiful gift as a token reminder of this moment. The rose was by far the prettiest thing she had seen in this place and of all the gifts she had ever received, these were the most thoughtful. She felt herself becoming warmer inside as she looked at the words, it would be a shame to erase them. Her stomach fluttered at the scent of the rose.

What was this feeling? It was new. It was exciting. It made her want to see Ryan again more than ever.

She would press the rose tomorrow so she could keep it forever, but tonight she lay on her bed face up, not caring about how the lights turned off at 9 o'clock with the chiming of the church bells. She held the blackboard and the rose in her arms gently so as not to smudge the text or damage the rose. She drifted into a pleasant sleep, her first since being here and despite the coldness of the summer night through her barred window.

_Is this what love feels like?_ She pondered with a smile. She slept well despite the moaning and intermittent screams that echoed through the corridors.


	8. Ch8: Be The Broken or The Breaker

**Chapter 8**

**Be the Broken or the Breaker**

The following week became much busier than Ryan anticipated. He was frequently called to meetings with the Captain and a few of his closest accomplices within the hospital. Often these gatherings would occur in the library where many things could be easily hidden.

Ryan stood as part of a circle of men around a table, each smoking under a single dimly lit bulb. The Captain would present his latest project, laying out the hospital floor plans on the table, instructing who was to be where and at what time. These gave Ryan a much clearer understanding of the layout of the immense building, even discovering where hiding places were concealed, which cells were vacant and where contraband had been placed in the event of needing a patient crafted weapon at short notice.

The others were dubious about Ryan's presence in the group but Jim quickly shot down any objections to his being there.

Ryan found himself on late night excursions when staff numbers were at their slimmest.

Some nights as a look out for the thieves of medication including the same portly orderly he had seen previously. As reward for his observant eyes, the orderly had crammed a packet of white powder into Ryan's hand. A quick taste of the substance upon his finger identified the substance as medicinal cocaine. The drugs stolen could provide a handsome sum for the supplier as well as occasional treats for the patients.

Some nights were spent working as a team. Slowly chiselling away at the mortar surrounding individual bricks with spoons and knives in order to create new places to hide contraband. They had done this one night in Ryan's own cell to hide his knife and cocaine. The staff were lax, but the military precision enforced by the warden still meant that weekly contraband checks took place in every cell.

Ryan discovered during one of his meetings with the men that the asylum ran its own form of a prostitution ring. Many of the men who were under Jim's employ were paid with drugs, but frequently they requested the satisfaction that only comes with carnal pleasures.

As the right-hand man, Ryan was entrusted with a master key for every cell. It was his duty to escort the would-be whores and clients to and from their liaisons. The first time he had done so he escorted the poor wretch Hugh to a woman's cell. The girl nearly screamed the place down, had backed herself into the corner at seeing Ryan enter her cell. She knew what was occurring this night but had not been told who her 'client' would be, the thought that it would be the Beast of Camden had almost caused a cardiac arrest, Ryan had simply stepped away to reveal the man behind him. He watched Hugh go into the cell, the woman relaxed immeasurably and immediately rose and brought Hugh into her arms, possibly more for her own comfort than his. Ryan simply closed the door and went to his next job. He would be back later to escort Hugh back to his own cell.

An arsonist who had deliberately set fire to the staff room to cause a distraction had requested not one, but two women as his payment for the escapade. He had been burnt during the stunt and caught in the act too, resulting in a thorough beating from the guards.

Ryan escorted three women through the halls that evening, feeling the stupid bastard deserved an additional treat since the stunt had been successful despite the casualty. A large stash of alcohol had managed to find its way inside the walls without alerting a single employee.

The arsonist lifted his bandaged head from the pillow of his hospital bed as the door opened and Ryan entered, accompanied by three of the finest the asylum had to offer. The fire starter could barely move in his agony but enjoyed the sinful delights the girls offered his body with their tender caressing fingers and eagerly sucking mouths. Ryan stayed in the room on this one occasion to witness a marvel of engineering as they attempted to gently fuck this scolded fool without hurting him. He dismissed the girls' attentions when they asked if he wanted to join them. He simply smoked and watched it all unfold from the shadows.

On frequent nights, Ryan would find himself in Jim's cell late at night as the two smoked, drank and laughed at the fortune they both sat upon. It was on these nights that Ryan would indulge in his supply of cocaine.

They drank straight from the bottles. Snorted their coke. They joked by candlelight and played cards late into the night. The Captain would often regale Ryan of his Navy days and his exploits upon his own men. Ryan would equally come back with his own stories of torturous delights. Jim particularly enjoyed hearing the tale of how Ryan had managed to fuck a prostitute and murder her in the process within her own brothel without alerting anyone. Jim thought it very clever to ask for one who screamed.

During the laughter, Jim regularly asked Ryan what his price would be to spend the night with him. Ryan always said that there was not enough money in the world.

"How about you stay and watch then? Perhaps you would be persuaded if you saw it for yourself?" Jim joked.

Ryan laughed and swigged some more gin from the bottle, "If I had sex with a woman in front of you, would you want to fuck her afterwards?"

They clinked their bottles together in celebration of a beautiful friendship.

But always, if there was time in the day Ryan made sure to commit himself to being with Abigail. The excitement of the nightly escapades were thrilling, but it was another thrill entirely to be with her.

She was so delighted to see him. She carried her board and chalk with her always, ready with a message for him to read. It made the tiredness he felt worth every sting in his eyes. She had become closer to him and him to her.

They shared little jokes between them, held hands, had even shared a small, slow dance together during a rare afternoon when a gramophone was presented in the recreation hall. Ryan had been reluctant, not knowing how to dance, but she insisted and dragged him to the floor and made him hold her. If her parents could only see her now. She had been to parties after her debutante ball but been discouraged from dancing with any eligible bachelors lest they be cads. Now she had her first dance with a man in here. Mother would certainly not approve. She relished in that.

He made her feel warm inside every time she saw him. She could no longer see all the little flaws that her mother would have pointed out to her as a thing to avoid. All she saw was an ebony haired warrior who was always with her when she needed him.

He loved how the sun would catch in her hair turning it into a startling display of fire embers and blood. The previous special woman in his life had forgiven him his misdeeds, but this one was unaware of them entirely. He did not need to be the person he became, that Beast. When he was with her, he was just Ryan in her eyes and that was all he wanted to be. Luckily that special woman had never seen what he had become and at last he began to feel as though her eyes could no longer judge him accusingly from Heaven, surely, she would be happy for him that he had moved on. Not replace her; she could never be replaced. But this was different, this was healthy. It was what a relationship should be. He noticed now that the discolouration surrounding his ring finger had finally begun to disappear.

Abigail had no idea what a relationship should be or what young love looked like. All she had for context was the tumultuous relationship of her parents. This felt right, her heartbeat sang and skipped whenever he held her hand. Every night she looked at the rose and was reminded of how wonderful he was, even when he had to leave her alone.

One late night, Ryan finished his errands and found himself wandering the halls. He went first to Jim's cell but kept on walking when he heard the muffled screams and low guttural moans emitting from within. Instead he had gone upstairs to room thirty-one. He slowly unlocked the door and saw her lying in bed but she did not stir at the sounds of the door opening; he had opened many doors in this place, he knew exactly the pressure required to open them silently.

It was a huge risk, he knew that, but the prize would be worth it if he had the resolve and willpower. He did not touch her. He did not step closer to her bed. He simply leaned his back against the wall and watched the steady rise and fall of her chest with the shallow breaths she took. His heart jumped in the moments she moved in her sleep, it raced faster as her legs uncurled from beneath her linen smock that had concealed them, exposed flesh greeted his hungry eyes, illuminated by the pale moonlight. He wanted to creep closer, to touch her thigh, to gently push the smock away from her entirely, if only to catch a glimpse of the secret place between every woman's legs. He withheld the urges, the temptations. Let her sleep, let her dream whatever dream she was having beneath those delicate eyelids.

Abigail dreamt she would get better from her affliction. If she were cured then she could go home and then she could appeal to the Board to release Ryan too, he was clearly better now. That was blatantly clear.

To Hell with what mother thought or the memory of her deceased father. She would run away with this man if they did not accept him. Although she hoped it would not come to that. Maybe mother would understand that even though they had met in here, it did not mean Ryan was any more damaged than she was.

Ryan had reluctantly pulled himself away from the sight of the delicate creature caught in slumber's web. He was amazed at himself that he had done this and he had not been tempted to force himself upon her. Maybe it was working, had he done it? Had he cured himself? As much as he wanted to make further advances, he did not wish to push his luck on the matter. He ventured back to his own cell, found his bottle of gin and drank himself to sleep as he wondered what he could do for her that would be special tomorrow.

He would break free of this affliction one way or another. If he could talk to her, stand and watch her sleep, that was one thing, it would be another to push it further, but this precious antibody he had found in the darkest of places was his salvation. He had to see if he could take things further.

Ryan found Smythie the next day but winced inwardly at seeing him. The young man sported a vibrant black eye, hand shaped bruises along his arms and walked with a limp. Ryan walked towards him.

He did not need to ask questions. Of all people under Jim's influence, Smythie was by far the favourite after Ryan. Much to his own disgust, Ryan was pleased that it was not himself who suffered at the Captain's hands, but it hardly seemed a fair fight putting this skinny piece of meat in with a titan of that magnitude. Smythie was in no way the only man in here to have felt that man's weight against them but he endured it perhaps more frequently than others. Ryan could only be thankful that Jim was perhaps using some restraint if his murderous background was anything like his own.

"Did you get what I asked for?" he asked.

Smythie sniffed back his pain and slowly nodded, "Just need one last thing, boss,"

Ryan patted him on the shoulder lightly and made his way to Abigail who sat as she often did by the patio windows looking out to the gardens. A pair of sparrows were enjoying the water provided by the bird bath and butterflies of various colours erratically flew in search of nectar. He sat next to her.

"Are you alright?" he asked as he took her hand.

Abigail sighed heavily and withdrew it to reach for her chalk.

"_I'm bored,"_ she wrote.

"Well, what would you like to do?"

"_I want to go outside,"_

Ryan took a glance at the gardens. They swarmed with life in its multitude of specimens both flora and fauna, "Yes, it's a shame they don't unlock these doors,"

The air inside had become stagnant to Abigail, much more so than normal. She was feeling rebellious having found herself having such adult thoughts lately. She wanted to do something new, one of those things was to go outside in the sun without the protection of a parasol. Perhaps even walk barefoot on the grass for once in her life. She licked her lips and wrote some more.

"_Why hasn't a doctor seen me yet?"_ it was a thought that had been troubling her these past few days. She had been here a week and not so much as seen a doctor let alone spoken with one. It was infuriating and another thing to add to her list of topics to discuss with Doctor Thompson when he came to visit.

"I don't know," Ryan started rolling himself a cigarette, "This place appears to be lacking in that department,"

"_It's lacking in a lot of things,"_ she scribbled in her frustration, "_Have you seen a doctor since you came here?"_

Ryan lit his cigarette, not sure how to answer her question but unconvinced that he could simply avoid it, she was in a particularly tempered mood right now, "When I admitted myself I did, on the first day," he could see the outrage flare in her eyes, "But that was a fluke, I made quite a show when I came here and they felt it necessary to assess me straight away. I didn't see much of doctors after that. Except when they had some new untested treatment they wanted to experiment with. I wouldn't recommend that," he lifted the hair at his temples to show her the electrical scorch marks scarred on them.

No, she didn't want anything like that. They looked like they hurt. It hurt when she touched a boiling kettle as a child with her fingertips, she did not want to relive the experience upon her face.

She sighed heavily again and returned her gaze to the window.

Jim entered the room with his usual flamboyant display, greeting everyone as he went. Ryan saw his opportunity and took it, "I need to do something, I'll see you later, okay?"

Abigail brought her legs to her chest and cradled herself without looking at him.

Ryan made his way to Jim and as had been the case for several days, other patients now moved out of his way entirely.

"Good morning, darling," Jim beamed and took him in a hearty embrace, "What a lovely day it is. A good day for plans and schemes, wouldn't you agree?"

"I need a favour," he replied bluntly.

This caught the big man off guard, Ryan had not asked for a favour in a long time. But he supposed he had shown himself loyal and trustworthy so what would be the harm, "Ask away, darling. As always, your wish is my command," he spoke with a familiar tone.

"I need the night off," it sounded so odd, as though he were asking for time off work.

Jim placed his pipe to his lips and let it sit there for a while as he spoke, "Got plans, have you?"

Ryan didn't like to discuss Abigail with Jim, he didn't even like it when Jim saw them together. As much as they were friends, Ryan knew full well that something like this could be used as blackmail if Jim were to suspect how much he felt for her.

Jim however was far from ignorant of their fondness. His eyes and ears were everywhere even when he himself was not. In no other place was the phrase, 'the walls have ears' more prevalent.

He could not conceal the smugness in his voice as he took a fleeting glance at the mute girl gazing out of the window and back to Ryan, "You've been spending a lot of time with her, haven't you?"

Ryan kept his eyes fixed on Jim's face, "What have you heard?" his voice hardened.

"It's the talk of the ward," Jim responded, waving his pipe at the many patients surrounding them, "Did you know they've even made up a song about you two, quite the merry little tune it is too. They sing it to the melody of 'The Grand Old Duke of York'," he chuckled, "The Jackal and The Mute, it's called,"

"How quaint," Ryan retorted. He looked to Abigail, so blissfully unaware of his heinous history, "Funny how that name seems to follow me everywhere,"

Jim was about to make more comments but halted at seeing the tension in Ryan's shoulders; perhaps now was not the time for frivolity or jokes. He had noticed Ryan's tensing muscles in recent days, the often far away look in his eyes, the jitteriness of his fingers. He recognised these peculiarities, he'd seen it in his men on long voyages, the symptoms of restlessness that could potentially lead to mutiny. He had to keep a tight leash on this dog, he did not need the beast to run rogue now. He drew from his experience at sea, often such nervous energy could be diluted with the correct elixir; a good hard fuck.

"Of course you can have the night, my dear boy!" Jim said with a happy, booming voice that ricocheted with as much force as the slap he gave Ryan's back, "Have fun, enjoy yourself. Just don't get caught," he made sure to whisper the last part, giving Ryan's shoulder a firm squeeze as he did. That gesture said more than any words.

Ryan turned and began to walk away when he heard the Captain say one final thing, "A word in your ear tomorrow, darling. I think you need to hear some hard truths,"

Ryan halted only briefly, wondering what the Captain meant by that, but he shrugged it off and went instead to search for Smythie. He had to make sure everything was perfect tonight.

Ryan waited eagerly outside but with a very real nervousness about him. He smoked furiously; he was already on his third cigarette since leaving the building. He paced back and forth, always checking the doors until at last he came to sit on the wall. He had only been this anxious once in his life, the experience had not dampened the sensation now. His patience and his courage were waning.

He doubted himself over and over again, but kept reminding himself that so far he had managed to keep control and handled everything better than he hoped; the urges were not as tempting and he had conducted himself as the perfect gentleman whenever she was in the vicinity. However, that nagging doubt never escaped his mind; if things progress further, what will happen?

It was a perfect night, a cool summers eve with delicate floral fragrances to the air. Somewhere beyond the caged gardens the sounds of festivities could be heard, a fayre with delectable treats and rides, the carnival was certainly in town. It made everything seem warmer. He took a deep breath to breathe in the entirety of the night. Was that candy floss he could smell? He could hear indistinct chatter and wondered how close it all was to the asylum walls. He took another violent drag of his cigarette just as the door behind him opened, he turned and froze at the sight.

Abigail had been delighted with her gift. She had burst into happy tears at seeing what the kleptomaniac had acquired for her. A nightgown, one of many she had brought with her to the hospital had been laid out on her bed along with a handwritten note in a hand she recognised, _Meet me at eleven o'clock. Wear this, please._ It seemed odd to her to wear a nightgown if she were not going to bed, but anything was better than the smock. After slipping it on she felt elegant and ladylike once more.

Outside, the moon glinted upon a pale creature dressed in silk, the colour a deep, dark red reflected in creases of blue. It fell to her feet in a perfect straight line, held in place by lace straps upon her slender shoulders. It would have seemed unsightly to others to see a young woman walking about in her nightgown, but in this moment, Ryan struggled to take his eyes from what he saw as perfection.

Ryan hastily threw his cigarette away as she descended the stone steps towards him. She paused at the last, looking down at her feet to watch as first her toes then her foot met the grass, she smiled at the tickling sensations that seemed to travel the length of her leg at touching it for the first time. She rushed to him with a wide grin.

The distant din of the crowds beyond the walls grew quiet as if the universe itself held its breath in order to appreciate this moment in its raw state.

At last Ryan let his breath escape as he took her hands in his, "You look… You look beautiful," he whispered.

She blushed and hid her face with her hair, mouthing the words 'thank you' at him as she did. She sheepishly looked back up into his pale eyes and felt the warmth his presence provided. They gazed at one another even as the sky above them exploded into colour with the thunderous bang of fireworks.

For a long time, they sat together on the wall admiring the display in all its glory. Chance had favoured them with an ideal location to watch it all. Ryan knew the guards would be busy with other errands tonight; Jim had ensured it to give them some privacy.

Abigail looked up at him occasionally, she edged herself closer until at last her fingers touched his and she felt a spark, encouraged by this and by his not recoiling she went further. She placed her head on his shoulder.

She loved fireworks. She last saw them in Asia for Chinese New Year, her father by her side, it was also the last time she had seen them and the last time she would hold her father's hand. She remembered being dazzled by the display then with her father by her side. It was just as spellbinding now.

Ryan was so immersed in the colours that he almost did not notice her closeness. He had almost forgotten that such colours existed in the world, so full of grey were the corridors of the asylum. Royal purples, illustrious greens, blues and reds the colours of Abigail's eyes and hair. The fiery embers descended and burnt out well before hitting the ground. He could not help but applaud the display when it was over.

Abigail pushed herself off the wall and gripped Ryan's wrist enthusiastically, she pulled him off in her haste and coerced him into the gardens.

Ryan laughed, "What's gotten into you?" he asked, knowing full well she could not answer him. She appreciated his talking to her so naturally.

The light of the fireworks had illuminated the gardens beautifully and she had seen something in them. She dragged Ryan towards the splendid fountain. The water trickled playfully from the jugs of frolicking cherubs who emerged from a column of stone resembling an ancient Grecian pillar entangled in ivy. She did not wait for Ryan to ask further questions, she lifted the skirt of her nightgown and lifted her leg to place it into the tantalisingly clear, cold water. Ryan did not ask questions, he simply watched as the pale skin on her thigh became visible if only for a moment, her other leg followed suit. Her toes squirmed at the chill and in her rebellious moment she let her night gown fall to the water and she waded to the centre, letting the cherubs pour their ever-plentiful jugs upon her outstretched hands. She felt free, truly free. If only her voice would comply with the freedom.

A mischievous grin appeared on Ryan's face as he leant down and splashed her. Shocked at first by the cold but then feeling the warmth at seeing his smiling face, she splashed him back. He dodged and retaliated with a harder swipe at the water. His aim was good and it caught her by surprise, she stepped back into the falling stream above her head, soaking her entirely, made all the worse by slipping into the pool.

Ryan was there immediately, fearing she hurt herself in the fall, "Are you alright?"

Abigail looked up at his face through sodden strands of hair. She quickly smiled before throwing a palm of water at his face.

He could not help but chuckle at this, "I'm assuming that means, yes," he said through painful blinks and dripping hair.

He managed to coax her out of the water at last when she began shivering.

He did not know where the gesture came from, he did not even think about it as he began unbuttoning his shirt, "You'll catch your death," he spoke as he removed the garment and wrapped it around her, rubbing her shoulders and massaging the ends of her darkened locks to dry them.

At first all she could do was look at his chest, caught in a moment of disbelief. It suddenly dawned on her that she had never seen a bare-chested man before, she wasn't sure what she expected to see. Her eyes traced the lines of his muscles, the sinews of his biceps, the tone of his abdomen, the line of hair that trailed from his trousers upwards to his sternum, the raised scars that littered his torso. Their eyes seemed to meet simultaneously as Ryan spoke, "We don't want you getting ill, sweetheart," his voice trailed off, firstly because of the look in her eyes, secondly because of the use of his pet name for women. A pet name that once had meant so much, but in later years became a way to depersonalise any woman.

Such strange feelings she did not understand. Such urges she could not put into words even if she had a voice. She knew she wanted to do something but couldn't explain what. Her throat felt dry, her skin hot, her fingers tingled.

She knew it was wrong, mother had told her it was wrong. Daddy had warned against it, even going as far as to lie to her about it.

But mother and daddy had told her lots of things and nothing bad had happened by ignoring them.

The kiss was fast. She stood on her toes to reach his lips with hers. She withdrew almost immediately; it was the kiss of someone who had never kissed before. Mother told her kissing men got girls pregnant so doing it quickly would surely lessen the chances. She gazed at him, waiting for a reaction.  
Ryan could not talk. His heart had stopped in his chest at what she had done. He froze in place, his hands shaking were his only movement for some time before he slid his fingers into her hair and instinctively pulled her close to him.

His kiss to her was long and deep, his tongue coiling into her mouth to taste her as much as possible. It was forceful, domineering and Abigail relinquished herself to it at feeling the warm feeling in her stomach radiating out through her limbs, pulsating in her lower body as Ryan pushed himself against her. Her arms wrapped around him, her fingers delighting in the feeling of his trembling muscles.

She trembled against him and he loved it. He liked it when they trembled, he liked how it felt against him.

His grip tightened on her hair, his hips ground into her seeking to be encircled by her thighs. He wanted to feel her, every bit of her, wanted to taste her forbidden places, wanted to latch his teeth to her, wanted to feel her struggle for escape, wanted to taste her blood…

"No!" he exclaimed as he pushed her away. He stepped back, unable to look into her eyes. Her confusion was evident but he simply could not look at her. He stammered as he staggered backwards towards the doors, "I… I'm sorry… I… I have to go,"

He ran, nearly falling over his own feet on the steps of the patio doors. He ran still as tears came to his eyes. He closed his cell door behind him and screamed a harrowing cry to the night as he fell to his knees and curled himself up upon the floor.

Abigail stood alone in the gardens completely flabbergasted by what had happened.

Her eyes welled with tears as a horrible sadness overcame her. How terrible for him, she thought as she slowly went back inside, he must surely be a troubled man to have such a reaction.

Unaware of Ryan's fantasies that kept him awake, Abigail did not feel scared of her troubled beau, she felt sorry for him and only wished she could make him better.


	9. Ch9: Wash Away Your Sins

**Chapter 9**

**Wash Away Your Sins**

The distant church bells chimed yet another hour, she looked up at the clock in the hall as they did. It was slow by five minutes but that did not matter.

_Where is he?_ She thought as she hugged her chalkboard to her chest. She could have cursed herself; all the times they had spoken and she had never once asked Ryan what his room number was.

Breakfast was over, lunch was finished, soon it would be dinner time and still he was not here.

She just wanted to see him, to make sure he was alright and not mad at her for kissing him.

She even approached several patients with her board asking only one question, _"Have you seen Ryan?"_ a frosty silence and passive head shaking were the only responses.

Not even Smythie who Abigail had seen talking with Ryan frequently had any answers for her. He kept his silence, pretending not to notice her amidst the teeming mass of individuals in the recreation hall. He averted his eyes and feigned his attentions elsewhere as she approached. She was too shy to stop him walking away from her.

Smythie would have told her everything, but he refused to speak in case he spoke the unspoken truth of the Jackal as the patients had begun to call him, neither did he wish to explain to the red-haired girl with sad eyes the truth. She was upset enough without knowing that Ryan had been taken for treatment when his pathetic cries had alerted the staff. Smythie had watched from the shutter in his own cell as the weeping, wreck of a man was carried by the crux of his arms through the halls at midnight, had he not seen it with his own eyes Smythie would never have believed the man capable of such heart breaking sobs. He wondered where they were taking him, what treatment would they thought appropriate to shock a man to his senses? Ice bath? Electro-therapy? Both were hideous and stunned the body in a similar fashion.

Fortunately, he had seen Ryan returned to his cell by orderlies in the early hours of the morning, after a gruelling three-hour session. Ryan was silent upon his return and walked with aid, but there was something different about him in the way he walked and it was not the chains they had him shackled in. It was hardly surprising to Smythie if Ryan had taken to his bed to recover from whatever ordeal they subjected him to. It was an unwritten rule that patients not gossip or discuss treatment, it was punishable by staff and considered improper by patients.

It was seven o'clock, Thursday, a miserable day with rain and clouds that refused to cease their relentless beating upon the windows. It had been an unsettled day and would later be a sleepless night for many patients too cold and damp to rest away their woes. Smythie wanted to get away from here, perhaps have a nap while he had the opportunity. He certainly did not want to be here when Mr Henderson came to collect the women from C Ward. It suddenly dawned on him that Abigail had only been here a week and would not know about Thursdays and what seven o'clock meant. She would know tonight. Another reason he did not wish to talk with her.

Abigail watched helplessly as Smythie hurried himself away, seemingly to talk with someone outside the recreation hall. Defeated, she wiped her board with her smock to rid herself of the message and hung her head at the feeling of forlorn that overshadowed her, she must have looked so small to Mr Henderson as he approached.

"Shower time, thirty-one," he said with an authoritative tone as he menacingly tapped his open palm with his baton.

There were twelve women on C Ward, a wide diversity among them. Senile older women long abandoned by their families because of age, younger women of child baring age with the white tiger stripe lines of child birth decorating their abdomens, forgotten by their husbands and adulterous lovers because of women's hysteria, their children held no memories of their mothers for they had been stolen away for their safety. They tried desperately to hide their woes and encroaching tears for fear of further punishment in addition to the ordeal they would all be apart of this evening.

Abigail did not understand their tears and apprehension, she welcomed the idea of a shower to rid herself of the layer of filth gifted to her by seven days in the asylum and found it shameful that showers were only provided weekly. She could not wait to scrub the dirt from under her nails and be able to run her fingers through her hair without encountering greasy tangles. However, standing in line with her fellow patients with their towels held close to the chests set her nerves on edge and as they walked single file towards the showers her neighbour tapped her shoulder.

"Do exactly as you're told but don't make eye contact, and for God's sake, don't drop the soap," she whispered to the young girl who had no idea what was to come.

Henderson and his henchmen prided themselves on efficiency and took their authority seriously to a fault. If a corner could be cut to save time or money you could be assured they would take it. That's why showers were only provided to patients once weekly, with cold water to reduce the need for coal or oil, with only a single bar of soap to be shared between the patients. They had the whole operation rehearsed and completed in a maximum of ten minutes. Making sure they were the only staff present for the showering of women's ward A, B and C was for their own perverse desires. Henderson wasted no time in setting up shop once all the women were present in the shower room.

Henderson and two of his men stood with them in the shower room while a third, much younger lad stood by the archway that led to the open corridor, through which patients wandered back to their cells, each taking a glimpse inside in the hopes of spotting something they liked.

"Face the wall and strip down," Henderson ordered.

They obeyed. If Abigail felt vulnerable the first time she was forced in here then now she felt utterly defenceless, she tried to cover her modesty with her hands, she threw her hair over herself to hide her nakedness. She could have cried, she had never been naked in front of a man before, her body filled with shame for every inch of skin she displayed.

His henchmen smirked at the sight of the flesh before them, darting their eyes towards the younger looking women, admiring their curves and their shivering, some of them still brandished the bruises from a previous shower time. The men admired their own handiwork.

"Now, ladies," Henderson spoke with the sarcastic tone of a prison guard readying to inflict punishment upon a contemptuous convict who did not know their place, "Find a shower head and start rinsing,"

_Are they just going to stand there and watch us?_ Abigail thought. She kept her eyes fixed to the tiles, not wishing to acknowledge the men behind her or the naked bodies surrounding her. She had never seen anyone naked before and did not wish to start looking now. She wondered if her mother's naked body looked like these and quickly snapped the thought away in repulsion.

The open jaws of the metal snake like head gushed forth a filthy water that struck her with its icy touch as viciously as her initial hose-down a week prior, she jumped back at its contact. She had not been aware that a man stood behind her until he placed a rough hand on her shoulder and pushed her back under the stream.

"Get back in there, thirty-one," Henderson barked, "Eyes in front, all of you,"

Abigail held herself tightly in a fruitless attempt to stave out the cold. Her teeth began to chatter as she focused her attention on a single tile with a crack and a hole in the grout beside it. Without turning her head she saw in her peripheral as her fellow patients began to wash themselves.

"Take the soap, use it and pass it along," he handed a sliver of a soap bar to the old crone closest to him. She made a lather in her hair and passed it onto the next girl who did the same thing.

A wave of nausea passed over Abigail, _No… surely they don't intend we share the soap. It's… it's unhygienic,_ the queasy feeling grew in intensity as the ever-diminishing bar of soap made its way towards her until at last it was handed to her, covered in dirt and wrapped in long strands of hair. She could only stare at it for a moment until the pleading in her showering partners eyes became too agonising to ignore. She pulled a face as she picked it up with the very tips of her fingers.

Something caught her eye, a small movement in front of her. Had she been looking elsewhere she might have missed it, but her wish to focus on that hole in the wall rather than the environment was stronger than her disgust. Had something just moved in that hole? Beyond it, behind the wall? Was there something behind the wall? She was sure she saw something move, but the dark mould filled crack offered no answers.

So focused on the hole and what had potentially moved behind it the soap slipped from her slender finger tips. An audible gasp sounded from each of the accompanying women, the world slowed down the instant the bar left her fingers and no matter how she tried to cling to it, the soap squirmed free of every grasp she managed to make. It landed silently on the damp tiles, the hairs slithered like eels away and down the drain.

Abigail looked up to find all eyes averted, looking at the floor. They stood, motionless as the water beat down with cold, thunderous applause of her antics.

"Well, well," came a voice behind her that made the breath catch in her throat, her eyes had never been more open than they were in this moment, "Look who dropped the soap,"

She held her breath and snapped her eyes shut, hoping she would not be beaten as she had seen happen to other patients for seemingly small offenses. All she could think to do was move her arms again to cover herself from their insidious gazes as they came closer.

Henderson stood directly behind her, biting his lip as he eyed her up and down, Two of his three henchmen chuckled to themselves at seeing the red-haired mute shivering, "Don't just stand there, thirty-one, pick it up," Henderson spoke, holding back a sinister chuckle of his own. Abigail moved slowly, bending her knees to lean down, "No, thirty-one," Henderson interrupted her movement, he placed his baton on her back, Abigail jumped at feeling it, "Not like that. Legs straight. Bend at the hips,"

She shuddered, she didn't want to do that, it would expose her. She wanted to tell them no, but even if she had a voice she doubted she could muster the courage to speak up now. She just wanted them to go and leave her alone to wash away the filth but they wouldn't leave, and even if they did she held no faith in being able to wash away the shame of this moment. She sobbed weakly in defeat and bent forward.

They studied her. Leered over her and edged closer. They did not need to speak or discuss the matter, they only needed to glance at one another to know the decision had been made and was unanimous.

"Wash yourself," the voice of Henderson sounded dry, he swallowed a hard lump in his throat as the mute placed the soap to her head and scrubbed, "Keep going," he ordered her, "Lower,"

Abigail could only produce small whimpers as she wept and moved her soapy hands over her naked flesh, her shoulders, her arms, her breasts.

"Lower,"

The other female patients continued to stare at the floor, one had begun weeping at remembering a very similar ritual pertaining to herself not so long ago, she did not wish to remain here and witness the same sadism inflicted on another young girl. She could only be relieved that their attention was now so focused on the new girl with her unblemished skin and slender build rather than herself and that thought made her sick.

"Wash your cunt," Henderson sneered at the small trembling girl.

_My what?_ She had never heard that word before.

"Lower," came the answer.

They all knew what was coming and now inwardly detested themselves for allowing it happen but more so that none of them had the courage to tell the mute what happened every Thursday at seven o'clock.

"Did someone tell you to stop?" a burley orderly shouted at the women who had remained motionless, "Finish up and go,"

They quickly rinsed their hair, using the suds in their limited quantity to finish cleansing their bodies, hastily turned off their showers and rushed to collect their towels. Abigail attempted to do the same, relieved for a brief second that it was over and she could cover herself, that was until Mr Henderson's baton rested against her bare shoulder, "Not you, thirty-one. Keep washing your cunt,"

Never before had she felt so very alone, so very scared. Cold and fear made her tremble. Not since becoming dumb had she such an urge to scream and cry out loudly, but her broken voice would not produce the release she yearned for.

She heard the other women, the sound of their feet against the wet tiles as they each scurried to leave the room.

"Martin," Henderson looked towards the young orderly in the doorway who was far away in thought and fantasy. He was most grateful to Mr Henderson for inviting him to be apart of his squad this evening and hoped he had fulfilled his obligations satisfactorily, "Take them back to Ward C,"

The eager look in the boy's eyes melted away in place of disappointment and confusion, "But… Mr Henderson… you promised… sir?" he bumbled.

Henderson did not avert his gaze from the quivering mute who massaged her intimate areas in front of him, "Did I fucking stutter, Martin?" his voice had the force of iron, Abigail winced at hearing it, "Get those wretched hags back in their beds. If you can manage to do that on your own then maybe I'll let you have a pity wank next week,"

Martin stammered in his feeble frustration. He felt humiliated and emasculated after being promised the opportunity to feed his lust. Henderson had caught the boy with pornographic material earlier in the week and had correctly presumed the lad to still be a virgin eager to get his rocks off with anyone, Henderson's silence could always be bought for a price and that price was usually another silent mouth.

Martin followed the women out to escort them to their cells.

Henderson and his crew continued to watch the girl shower, he ran his baton up and down her back menacingly, enjoying the way she recoiled at every touch. At last the baton rested on the small of her back.

"Move," he pushed her forward as he spoke until Abigail was almost pressed against the frozen tiled wall, he lowered his baton and placed it upon the flesh of her buttocks, "Hands on the wall and spread your legs,"

Abigail hesitated briefly, trying to decide what to do with the soap still in her hand. She kept hold of it in a death grip and did as she was told.

Henderson lowered the baton and he watched with the orderlies in fixed fascination as he slid it under her. She didn't know what they were doing, why they were doing it or why they laughed and whispered behind her back, she just wanted to cry and close her legs, she wanted to run away from their eyes. Her body quaked in fear, she dropped the soap again but this time nothing was said about it.

Instead she felt a heavy weight against her back, pinning her against the wall, she struggled to escape it, but they grabbed her hair, held her fast and kicked her squirming legs apart. They surrounded her on all sides and she deduced that it was Henderson who stood directly behind her, Henderson who rubbed himself against her.

"You dirty whore bitch!" she heard one of them say, it might have been Henderson, but equally it might not have been, "Let's see how tight that pussy is of yours?"

She heard the unfastening of buttons over the torrent of water, the snickers of laughter at her, she felt something hard and warm pressed against her lower back, she knew it was not Mr Henderson's baton this time. She clenched her eyes shut as he licked her ear lobe.

"Uh… boss…" the man who stood to the right spoke.

"What, Séan? Can't you see I'm fucking busy?" Henderson responded.

Sean did not respond, his attention was focused on the entrance to the shower room where someone else now stood.

Unable to find the words, he simply reiterated, "Boss?"

The man on the left, Frank, turned to follow Séan's gaze and gasped when he saw the Beast standing in the archway, "Fuck me, it's him," Frank wasn't sure what scared him more, the fury in the Beast's eyes or the sinister half smile that he wore, he unfastened his own baton.

At last Henderson looked and instantly withdrew from restraining Abigail, he quickly refastened his open trousers while keeping eyes locked on the inmate, whose own eyes had not blinked.

Abigail dropped to the floor, the trembling in her legs made her knees buckle and she felt unable to keep standing, she hugged her legs close to her and hid her head in her knees and balled.

"Why is he out?" Frank asked frantically.

"Is that really him?" Séan asked having never actually seen the inmate before with his own eyes but knowing enough to hazard a guess.

Recent scorch marks an angry red highlighted his temples and his hands were bloody at the fingertips, each one raw and painful in an attempt to feel something other than the numbness that had overcome him since his earlier treatment.

"We're going to be sacked for this," Frank said with worry in his voice.

"Not if we get him back in his cell before anyone realises he's out, Frank. Just shut the fuck up," Henderson barked in a whisper, "Alright?... Number eleven, isn't it?"

The man breathed heavily but had no further reaction to his cell number being called. Henderson gulped, "I know what you're thinking, eleven, but its not like that. This is a private party, you understand, we can't have you doing what you do to the patients like on the outside now, can we?"

Small beads of blood dropped from his fingertips as they made fleeting spasmodic movements, an after effect of electro-shock therapy. His expression still did not change.

"He's a simpleton?" Frank asked.

"Perhaps the electro this morning cooked his brains," Henderson whispered back, he looked towards Séan and nodded a subtle acknowledgement. Séan slowly began to flank, hoping the bastard in front of him had fried his peripheral vision, it would appear he was passing undetected.

"Alright, eleven, this one's not for you understand?" Henderson said in reference to the mute girl on the floor, "Let's get you back to bed, yes?"

Séan was closing in, his baton ahead of him, he raised it high when he was in range.

"Eleven? Do you understand me?" Henderson's eyes sped between his colleague and the beast, happy Séan was proving so useful after so long.

The words rasped against the man's throat as he spoke, it was low, almost inaudible at first but rose to a roar.

"My. Name. Is. RYAN!" he screamed as he turned and grabbed Séan by his raised arm and threw him back against the wall. Séan hit his head hard against the tiles and immediately fell to the floor unconscious.

Ryan grabbed the dropped baton and casually began twirling it in his fingers, the half smile had grown to a full wicked grin to reveal his blood tainted teeth, "Now ladies, who would like to dance with me first?"

Abigail concentrated on keeping her attention to the tiles on the floor and the water that flowed over them towards the drain. She shut out all sounds expect that of the shower's unrelenting pour, hitting her skin and splashing noisily against small bodies of water. It had been too much for her to cope with. All that shame, all that humiliation; her mother would be furious with her, she could be excommunicated from the Church. How could she possibly convey this to the kindly priest? Could he absolve her of this wickedness that she tasted on her skin and in her tears. Would God forgive her for being naked in front of a man not her husband and touching places her own priest had told her from childhood to never touch lest the Devil be granted access?

She did not hear the commotion around her, did not hear the words spoken, the fight that ensued, the howls of pain, she only noticed when the shower head above her stopped producing that cold waterfall.

"Get up,"

That was not Mr Henderson's voice. That was…

"Get up!" came the voice again.

She gently pushed herself up and looked to where the voice came from. Without thinking, she went to cover herself from his eyes despite how his back was turned to her.

The three men who had tormented her mere moments ago were lying on the floor not moving, lines of blood trickled out from their heads but they appeared to still be breathing albeit laboured.

"Get dressed and go to your room," Ryan spoke in a harsh order. Although his back was turned to her he kept his eyes closed to stop himself from seeing her naked.

She starred at the sight before her, the men on the floor, the blood, her beloved, his bloodied hands. She reached out for him.

"I said, leave!" Ryan screamed at her.

Quickly brought back to her senses by the rage in his voice, Abigail ran for her towel which she wrapped around herself in haste, grabbed her sodden smock and ran from the room as fast as she could now she had coherence again. She had to get back quickly and write up her confession for Father McGuire to read, she prayed he would be in attendance tomorrow. She simply had to be rid of this sin before she saw Ryan again. No wonder he could not look at her, she was a dirty sinner and her soul needed to be cleansed.

She would have to pray for forgiveness tonight and say at least five hail Mary's before sleeping, if she could sleep.

At hearing her leave, Ryan turned back to the room and surveyed his artwork. He smiled in the realisation that the masterpiece was not quite finished yet and he laughed as he retrieved his switch blade form his pocket.


	10. Ch10: Don't Ever Rely On Me

**Chapter 10**

**Don't Ever Rely On Me**

"Jim! Open up, I have a gift for you," Ryan was out of breath having carried the heavy load through the corridors to Jim's cell, he was sure he would be welcomed. There were no sounds of struggle from within.

After a long moment Ryan heard the large man rise from his bed, the springs screamed their protest at his immense size, he came to his cell door and opened the shutter. His bushy eyes glinted at seeing his most favourite of boys in the hall outside.

"Well, well," he beamed, "Ryan, darling, and what do I owe this pleasure? Have you perhaps reconsidered your sexuality?"

Ryan smirked his bloodied grin back, "Alas Jim, I still have not called mine into question, but I do have something here that you may prefer,"

He reached down and picked up Henson by the scruff of his collar with one hand, the other he used to pull the man's face up by his hair. He was unconscious and bleeding from his temple.

Jim's eyes lit up and he opened his door. He leaned against the doorframe, pipe in hand and stared down in delight at his present, "Mr Henson… My word, darling, how on earth did you manage to procure me such a wonderful gift?"

Ryan let Henson's head drop limply back to his chest, "I found him and his arsehole crew trying to sexually assault another patient. I thought perhaps you would want your way with him,"  
Jim was aware of the weekly assaults and although he had never intervened, he was disgusted by the behaviour of those responsible. There was no sportsmanship to it. Three on one, it was unsightly and hardly a fair fight in his eyes. Part of the appeal for him was the solitary hunt. What good was a fox hunt if the dens were sealed to prevent the fox from escaping capture?

"Which patient?" he asked.

"Abigail," Ryan responded.

"Abigail. Abigail?... Oh, your little mute! Oh, that's most unfortunate," he stepped aside allowing Ryan to roughly throw Henson inside the cell to the floor. He moaned as he struck the ground.

"He's all yours," Ryan said as he turned to leave. He stopped in his tracks though, perhaps this show of loyalty could buy him a favour, "I need another favour,"

Jim swept his arm across himself, inviting Ryan to join him in his cell away from patrolling eyes, "After this lovely gift you bought me, how can I refuse?" he closed the door and went to light a candle to better facilitate their rapport.

"I need Abigail moved closer to my cell,"

The Captain playfully blew out the match as he made eye contact with his right-hand man, the room grew into a pleasant orange glow from the candle light, "Your cock getting too dry on that long walk to room thirty-one?" he chuckled.

Ryan did not rise to the presumption, "It's not like that with her, I've never touched her," he answered, "Christ Jim, it was pure luck I was there tonight. It could happen again, surely you've seen how they look at her, staff and patients alike, I need her moved for her protection,"

Jim paced the small space a while, puffing on his pipe as he took this information in. He had suspected that maybe the young girl had not been privileged to see Ryan in peak performance, but now it was confirmed. He finally settled his pacing by placing his enormous foot on Henson's motionless body, "Out of curiosity, why were you there? No one's seen hide nor hair of you all day,"

"Don't change the subject," Ryan snapped angrily.

Jim giggled to himself, "You were watching the girls shower weren't you?" he asked accusingly, "I knew you'd go to those peepholes sooner or later,"

Ryan _had_ gone to watch.

He had not thought it possible to feel anymore numb than he had been these past months, but the recent electroshock treatment had managed somehow to intensify the empty feeling inside. Outside of these walls, only one thing had taken the numbness away, one thing had made him feel alive again after his tragedies. Since coming here, that feeling had become the base line of his self and although things had proven affective against it only one thought had truly awakened his sense of purpose and longing.

He had gone to the showers to fantasise and rid himself of the now crippling numbness that clouded everything. He had hurt himself, had chewed at the skin on his fingertips until they bled in an attempt to feel anything at all, had smacked his head against the wall out of frustration. He went to the showers knowing it held the one thing he knew would have an impact; it had come as a complete shock to spot Abigail amidst the group of women. He could not take his eyes off her as she undressed, he let his mind go unbridled as he watched her shiver under the cold water, he had moved to a better vantage point to watch her wash herself at Henson's instruction. If truth be told, he would have come to her rescue sooner had he been able to tear himself away from the sight of her washing herself, his eyes could not be drawn away from her slender fingers as they massaged her delicate areas. He had licked his own fingers to taste the blood and it had only stoked the furnace. He had only stopped watching when Henson laid his hands on her. That he could not watch, could not tolerate. How dare he touch this precious flower, she was his.

Ryan did not respond to Jim's accusations. His expression barely changed. His eyes and jaw remained hard.

"I suppose it can be done," Jim said finally, "It won't be easy though. To get her moved closer to you she'd need to do something quite heinous, you are after all on the felony wing. She would need to become a danger to herself and others,"

"I don't care how you do it, Jim. Just make it happen," Ryan made to open the cell door. Jim was there in an instant and forced his large hand against it to prevent Ryan from leaving.

"You and I need an honest chat, darling," he blew smoke into Ryan's face as he spoke, "Since you're here, let's have it now,"

"This discussion can wait…"

"No, it can't," Jim responded forcefully.

At their feet, Henson groaned, he appeared to be coming back to reality. Jim quickly put an end to that though, he kicked Henson in the face. Henson's nose broke with the impact and he drifted back into darkness.

The Captain took several long inhales on his pipe before continuing, "Do you honestly think you can be cured of your urges?" he asked, "You think their science is the answer? Let me be frank, there is no cure for you here, darling,"

Ryan had long suspected this after his initial treatments had failed to provide a successful result, "That may be the case, but at least if I'm here I can try to harness it. Here, I'm not a danger to anyone,"

"You're a fool unto yourself," Jim scoffed, "When will you end this senseless denial and just be who you were born to be?"

Ryan turned to face Jim, the shadows danced across his darkened expression, "A rapist? A murderer? A jackal…" he struggled to speak the final word.

The Captain reached for his bed, moved the pillow to reveal a large tear on the mattress, he retrieved a bottle of gin from it, half empty, without the label, "If a jackal you are then so am I," he took a hearty swig of the bottle's contents and passed it to Ryan, "I speak the truth when I say you will only fail at this endeavour,"

Ryan took the bottle reluctantly. He suddenly felt as though he wanted to get very drunk, the testosterone from earlier had worn off and it made his muscles ache.

Henson moaned again. Jim brought his foot down hard upon the man, sending him once again away from the private conversation. Ryan smirked at remembering Henson's earlier line, 'This is a private party'. He looked back at Jim who seemed so much larger and more imposing in this light, he wondered if it was all for effect.

"You don't know what you're talking about," Ryan said as he placed his dry lips to the bottle, he swished the drink around his gums to get rid of the blood in his mouth and swallowed the contents hard. He sucked air in through clenched teeth at its taste.

"Why did you choose her then? Why the mute? You have your pick of women within these walls to test your resolve on, darling, why pick her?" he genuinely wondered if Ryan was aware of his own actions.

"My pick of women?" Ryan laughed as he took another drink, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as he slumped against the door, "An asylum of crones, hags and loons, the kind of women you couldn't pay me to put my cock in,"

"So instead you choose the temptation of the sweetest, virginal meat the slaughterhouse has to offer, the one who makes your balls tight at the very thought of her,"

Jim wasn't wrong in that observation, she had always made a lasting physical impression on Ryan from the first time they met, "That's the point Jim, if I can control the urge with her then it can be done with any woman,"

Jim removed his pipe from his lips, emptied the hot contents into his hand and placed the pipe on his bed. Ryan thought Jim looked to be very uninterested in this topic, but fucking women was not exactly in his list of extracurricular activities. Jim fished out a single pre-rolled cigarette from the mattress, lit it between his lips and threw it to Ryan who although surprised, managed to catch it without burning himself, "Yes, but the point is, you intend to fail. You always have done," Ryan inhaled deeply with increased frustration at the conversation, "You know I'm right. If I weren't you would have stayed away from the mute. Instead you took it upon yourself to test your willpower on the one person in this institute who has no way of telling anyone if you fuck her,"

An angry look crossed Ryan's face and he looked away, "You're wrong," he blew the smoke aggressively.

Jim strode the short distance of the room towards him. He towered over Ryan, "Look me in the eye and tell me that," he ordered.

They stared at each other, their eyes fixed, hard and angry, their muscles tensed in a display of dominance. The tense silence between them might have been broken sooner if a patrolling night watchman had not strolled past the cell at that moment. The intensity of the cell did not spill out to the corridor and the guard merely strolled by casually, whistling a jaunty tune to himself. Neither man moved nor spoke until they were sure he was gone.

"Be honest," Jim whispered, "You don't carry that blade for protection. You're just waiting for a chance to put it to her throat,"

"Fuck you!" Ryan spat back in a harsh whisper of his own.

"Admit it. You can only toss yourself off to the thought of blood!"

"Shut up!" Ryan yelled at last.

Henson coughed, he rolled onto his back and hugged his pained ribs.

"Will he ever fucking stop?" Ryan took one more gulp of gin, gripped the bottle tightly by its neck and advanced on Henson, pushing Jim out of the way as if he weren't there. He brought the bottle down hard on Henson's face, smashing it and then began kicking the downed man again and again, "Just. Stay. The. Fuck. Down!" he yelled.

_What a poor waste of gin_, Jim thought as he went to grab Ryan, "Enough of that, I need him alive,"

Ryan retaliated to the touch, bringing his fist up to punch Jim square in the jaw. It hit but at a heavy cost, the pain in Ryan's knuckles at striking the blow would not be soon forgotten, but it did not stop the ensuing scuffle.

They grabbed one another, each trying to gain the advantage. Jim was bigger and stronger, Ryan was nimble. As Jim went to put him into an arm lock, Ryan reached for his switchblade, unsheathed it, brought it to Jim's throat and pushed the tall man back to the wall. They stared each other down, the knife resting against the Captain's protruding Adam's apple.

Jim laughed, "Tell me again that violence isn't your aphrodisiac,"

So close were their bodies pushed together that Jim could feel Ryan's hard arousal pressed against his thigh.

A look of horrified realisation crossed Ryan's eyes as he slowly backed away, he dropped the blade from his trembling hands. His heart raced, his blood on fire, his loins tight and begging for release and that feeling of being alive. Reeling in despair and clutching at his hair Ryan quickly turned about and screamed, "Fuck!" the tears followed swiftly as he noticed how his nerve endings had come to life in the excitement, he could feel everything.

Jim picked up the blade from the cold floor, "There's no shame in the pursuit of pleasure, darling," he said as he handed it back to Ryan, he leant forward, placed his hand upon Ryan's firm groin and whispered sweetly, "If you want to feel better, go to her. Make her yours,"

The sound of her door unlocking made Abigail jump from her frantic scribblings of a confession and face the squealing metal barricade as it opened slowly. Was it Henson? Had he come back to finish what he started? She reached for her neck, the phantom memory of a crucifix she wore on the outside sparked a response to grasp it as comfort. Of course the necklace was not there; confiscated from her like everything else.

It was not Henson who opened the cell. In fact it took her a moment to recognise the man who stood in her doorway, so slumped were his shoulders in defeat. She was relieved to see him, but equally ashamed. She had to confess her sins before she saw him.

It did not even register that he had somehow unlocked the door to her cell.

"I need to talk to you," Ryan managed to say at last. Before she could object he had stepped forward.

Unsure of what to do, unable to express her feelings fast enough on paper, she stepped back and quickly moved the papers of her confession away to make room and tidy up. She grabbed her chalkboard as he stepped into the cell with her, he closed the heavy door and locked it behind him as she hurried to make her room presentable. She did not notice the turning of the lock.

With the initial shock of Ryan showing up at her door gone, Abigail at last saw him properly. The pale moonlight streamed in through the barred window above her bed, illuminating the scene just enough to reveal the blood stains upon his shirt. She stepped towards him and he noticed her gaze, he followed it and sighed, "It's not my blood, don't fret," she could not help but fret, not after what had happened in the shower room. Ryan gestured to the bed and asked her to sit, he walked to the opposite wall and leaned back against it. The gin had indeed loosened him but he still could not collate the words he needed for this moment. He had to give her an explanation before anything else happened, he had to try and explain to her who he was before he inevitably showed her. It was the only right thing he could do for her now.

Abigail reached for the chalk.

"No," Ryan said simply, she stopped, "I just need you to listen. No talking. Just listen to what I have to say. Put them away, please,"

Confused by this but ultimately complying with his request, Abigail placed her chalkboard on the floor, a strange feeling swept over her like the rising of cold water over her body. She did not know what brought on this level of apprehension, something was different. Something seemed very wrong. She pulled the hem of her smock down to cover her knees instinctively.

Ryan sighed heavily, closed his eyes to avoid looking at hers and after a moment to collect his thoughts, he opened them and began speaking.

"I should have told you sooner. If I had then we might not be here now, but here we are…" he sniffed, "Do you know what… what a rapist is?"

Honestly, she did not. She shook her head slightly. This was hardly surprising to Ryan, but he was happy for the confirmation, it gave him an opportunity to present an argument unbiased by previous judgments.

"That's alright," he reassured her, he inhaled deeply before continuing, "I'm not a well man. I have a hard time being around women," he could see her nodding despite how he did not look at her face, "No, you don't understand… I've done some terrible, horrible things in the past. Things that would make you hate me if I were to share them with you. I came to this asylum because I didn't want to be that person anymore. I didn't want to keep repeating those terrible things. I came here for a cure,"

Abigail listened intently. She wished she could comfort him whenever she heard the awful cracks in his voice from time to time, but something held her to the bed, something that made her terribly uncomfortable in his demeanour.

At last Ryan chuckled to himself, "There is no cure for my sickness apparently. Oh they've tried, they've drowned me, electrocuted me, cut and torn me, they even put me in comatose, but no cure. No matter what they did, I still had the thoughts and the urges to commit these acts. It was the only thing that took away the empty feeling. Have you ever felt truly empty, Abigail? I mean _truly_ empty? The feeling that nothing can reach you, that you're lost at sea. The feeling that even if you were to eat a fine meal, it would take away the hunger but you could never truly appreciate the flavours of the dish. That's what my emptiness feels like and it's been that way for so long now. Only one thing took that emptiness away, one wicked deed," He emphasised the point with a single raised digit on his hand. He pushed himself from the wall and slowly walked towards the girl on the bed who had not taken her eyes off him or the blood upon his shirt, he knelt on the floor in front of her, "But then, just as I had given up all hope of salvation, you came along… and you… you were perfect," he took her hands in his own and smiled up at her, seemingly oblivious to the look of fear that crossed Abigail's face at noticing his bleeding fingertips and how they rubbed his blood into the pale skin of her slender knuckles, "You see, I didn't realise it until now. It's you Abigail, you're my cure, you're my… antibody,"

_What are you saying?_ She tried to say through confused eyes.

"I know what needs to be done now," Ryan said with a smile and teary eyes at the understanding of it all. He raised the bloodied fingers of his right hand to her cheek and stroked it even as she pulled away, "You can't scream… don't you see? You're perfect because you can't scream,"

Now the apprehension turned into fear. Abigail recoiled at his touch, unsettled by his words, horrified at the realisation that the blood on his fingers was indeed his own, the flesh jagged and frayed on every digit. She wanted him out of her room now; whatever else he had to say could be said in the morning when the dark shadows of night that made everything appear more sinister were gone. She wanted him to leave right now. She straightened her back as she had seen her mother do before laying down the law to an unruly servant and pointed hard at the door to her cell.

_Get out! _She said with her strongest inner voice.

Ryan seemed ignorant of her bold gesture, he only noticed Abigail moving her hands away from him and jumping at his touch, only small actions that spoke in volumes to him of past delights. This was how he remembered it, all of the small initial movements of every woman he had ever been with, the first signs of reluctance and rising tension at the situation. The very actions that stirred his appetite to seek further responses. He reached for her face again.

"I know that you love me," he whispered, "They all loved me, every single one of them. You don't need to say it," his fingers met the crux of her neck and jawline, they left bloody trails across her skin as he held her still, "I can change… for you," he rose his body up and began leaning into her, "I have to see if it's possible, but I need you to do something for me… " the pressure on the back of Abigail's head increased as he pulled her closer, "Don't fight me," he breathed as his lips brushed against hers.

Abigail turned her head.

"Please, don't fight me," he softly said again but with more urgency this time as he turned her face back to his. Their lips made contact and Ryan's tongue forcefully sought her mouth. The grip he held was much tighter now.

Abigail pushed him back with all the strength she could muster, enough to leave Ryan's lips. She smacked his hand away from her face.

_What's wrong with you? _She thought, _You shouldn't even be here, in my room. It's unsightly. It's sinful and wicked and I have enough on my conscience without you of all people making me feel worse._

Her expression one of pure disgust and outrage as she rose from the bed and moved for the cell door. She would make him leave one way or another. Perhaps opening the door would be a cue he could understand in his delirious state.

She gave the door handle a tug but found herself unable to move it, a spark of confusion pulsed through her mind which was swiftly followed by a rising dread. No, surely he had not locked the door. She pulled again, this time with both hands, but her efforts were futile.

Abigail suddenly ceased her strenuous endeavours at hearing Ryan's voice again, directly behind her, her eyes grew wide in fear at hearing the harshness of his words and the implied threat behind them, "I told you, not to fight me," she should not have turned around but some force compelled her to and Ryan was there ready to grab her, force her back against the door, press his body close to hers, grip her throat and kiss her deeply as he held her struggling body.

Every time his lips retreated, he uttered one broken sentence over and over again, "Don't fight me… Please, don't fight me…"


	11. Ch11: The Grail T'ween Your Thighs

**Chapter 11**

**Screams in the Night**

What was one more moan in a place like this? What was the value of another pitiful cry in a building where the very bricks seemed to produce them of their own volition at regular intervals?

It did not matter to the skeleton crew of staff and night watchmen. It did not matter to Séan and Frank who awoke some time later with aching skulls and swimming vision in the shower room.

Their own pitiful cries were drowned out by the atmospherics the twilight brought to Borehamwood as they washed their hands of blood, wincing as they tenderly attempted to clean the two stubs on both their hands that had once been where fingers stood. They stripped their shirts to inspect the damage inflicted on them, the garments heavily blood soaked but caked to the sore wounds. They turned to one another and saw an identical message carved into each of their chests.

_Touch her again and you die_

_She is mine_

They both hastily left the asylum. They did not stay to look for Henson. They would be back tomorrow but would never utter a word of what occurred this evening.

One nurse loitered in the corridors of Ward C, not wishing to go all the way downstairs to the gardens to relieve her tobacco addiction. She only wished as she puffed smoke in a long plume from her lips that the patients would quiet down. As she finished it and stubbed it out while walking past room thirty-one she surmised that perhaps the mute was having a nightmare judging by the sounds emitting from within. She thought maybe she should rouse her from the dream, but then considered her salary and deduced she was not paid enough to babysit the patients. She hurried past on her way to more important duties.

Inside the cell, Ryan waited for the sound of kitten heels to disappear as he faced the wall, leaning against it. When he was sure the nurse was out of earshot he sighed deeply.

"Why did you have to struggle?" he asked.

Behind him, a lone figure was secured to the bed by torn pieces of fabric, fixing their arms and legs tightly to all four corners. Abigail attempted to cry out, but no sound came from her aside from small, broken clicks her throat produced.

"I told you not to fight me," he said with a trembling voice, "It makes me wild,"

As frantically as the girl struggled, she was not aware that Ryan had used slipknots to tie her binds, the more she struggled the tighter the nooses became. She could only keep her eyes fixed on the man in her cell.

_What are you doing? What is he going to do to me?_

Ryan turned back to her, happy to see her movements well and truly hindered, it was not perfect but it would do for his purposes. Somewhere deep down he knew this was wrong, knew it should not be like this… but it was all he knew, every woman had resisted and struggled; even the love of his life had fought against him at his request. There was something about an unwilling woman, something in their endeavours to escape his clutches showed him love, it made no sense, but it was what he saw in his mind.

He sat on the bed beside her as she tried to move herself away. He placed what he thought was a reassuring hand on her thigh, "I'm sorry, sweetheart, I can't have you resisting," he smiled as he spoke and looked into her eyes on the verge of tears, "I know you want to, and I know you think it'll make me happy. I appreciate that,"

Abigail shook violently as Ryan moved himself over her, placing his legs between hers. Their faces mere inches apart, she felt his warm breath upon her neck as he looked her up and down. Her eyes betrayed her confusion and fear.

He gasped, "I forgot," he started, "You're a virgin, aren't you, sweetheart? You don't know what I'm going to do, do you?"

_Kill me?_ She thought. Perhaps rapist was another word for murderer she had never heard before, perhaps it was Gaelic. It was not a word she recognised as being Arabic or Asian. The use of the word virgin worried her though. It was a word she had heard frequently since becoming a young woman but not understood its meaning. Her mother and family priest had been very forceful with their lectures about protecting her virtue and virginity, but they had never explained what that meant, they had only looked embarrassed and changed the subject when asked.

Of course, she could convey none of this to the man who rubbed his hips against hers slowly.

Ryan's smile grew wider, he had always preferred virgins.

"I'll try to be gentle with you, sweetheart,"

It had not escaped Abigail's attention that Ryan had stopped calling her by her name and there was something sinister in the way he spoke the pet name he used instead, did he think she was someone else?

He leant closer, "Kiss me," he ordered.

She did not object, but neither did she pull away from his lips as they found her own, she simply stared ahead in disbelief and abject bewilderment at the situation. Ryan's tongue gently pushed its way into her mouth, their last kiss had ended so abruptly by his own repulsion that he wished to savour this moment and he fell into it with abandon.

She had not expected a murderer to do this, it startled her. Scared, but with a strong sense of self preservation, she thought perhaps if she kissed him back that it might bring him back to his senses. She had no other options open to her. She didn't want to die, she didn't want to lose Ryan to his delusions. She could help him, she was sure, and if she could help him, she could save herself. She returned his affections as best she could in her state of fear and distracted by the strange hardening thing she felt pressing against her pelvis.

A warmth spread out from Ryan's groin as she reciprocated his kiss. Just as he had suspected, she wanted it. They had _all _wanted it. Reluctantly, he tore himself away and sat up to admire her. He wanted her now, the tightness in his trousers was painful and begged for release.

"Now, let me see you," he whispered breathlessly as he placed his hands upon her restrained legs and ever so slowly began to move them up, pushing the smock out of the way as he ascended.

_No!_ Abigail cried internally, _You can't see me naked, _she bucked her hips. Ryan grasped them tightly and shushed her as he continued to push the garment up.

"Don't be impatient," he jested, "I want to do this slowly,"

She closed her eyes as tears came to them. Her squirming against the thin mattress and squeaky frame only allowed Ryan to be swifter in undressing her. He had spent many an hour in his room with a wandering mind, imagining what her naked body looked like under the smock and he was more than delighted with the reality of what she offered and it was so much more tantalising now she lay under him rather than spying her through a small hole. Her stomach was toned, unblemished by stretch marks, her ribs were ever so slightly visible, her curves were sinuous, her breasts, small but pert, he paused at seeing them letting out a deep breath in his excitement, finally he lifted the smock over her head and let it hang from her arms by the sleeves.

He admired the perfection helplessly bound before him and trembled at the sight. She smelled good, clean and pristine, "It's been so long…" his voice was barely audible.

Abigail's eyes had not opened, if she could not see then perhaps nothing bad would happen. If thine eye offends thee then pluck it out. She could hear Ryan moving above her, but could not bring herself to look at him, the look in his eyes had disturbed her to her core. This was not Ryan anymore.

Had his desires not been so strong, had it not been so long since he felt the soft skin of a woman, had he any consideration for her feelings, he might have eased the young virginal girl into this moment. But his judgement was clouded, he was consumed by his own selfishness, emptiness and self-told lies. He released himself and forced himself into her. A sharp, audible gasp escaped him at the sensation of her tight walls, only tightening still as she tensed with his entry.

At last, Abigail opened her eyes and as she did, her mouth opened and she screamed, high and loud into the darkness embracing them as she was torn.

Ryan's hand clamped across her mouth almost immediately and they both stared at each other in wide eyed amazement at what had just happened.

He laughed, "You… you screamed… you have your voice again, sweetheart, that's wonderful," gingerly he withdrew his hold on his face.

Abigail's breath quickened, her throat was raw from the piercing cry and taken entirely by surprise at hearing it outside of her head rather than inside it. A tear of equal delight and pain rolled down her face.

She hadn't imagined it, she had indeed produced a sound, Ryan's words confirmed it.

She could get out of this, if someone heard her, someone might come.

She went to scream again, but Ryan's hand stifled the sound this time.

"Shut up!" he snarled, "I don't want to hurt you…" if truth be told, he would have taken great pleasure in letting her scream as loudly as she could, but that would ruin everything, "… I don't want to hurt you," he reassured her gently as he stroked her cheek. If she screamed he would lose all control and he did not know what horrors he would unleash upon her body at his most favourite of stimuli.

His hold over her mouth prevented her screams which instead turned into the sound of pleasant moans as he began moving, slowly at first, relishing in the feeling of her muscles relaxing instinctively.

"Oh God..." he managed to utter through gritted teeth as he thrust himself deeper.

His sounds were perverse, his words filthy to her ears. Restrained as she was and silenced she could only watch. The pain in her lower body was intense, it burned with his every thrust.

It dawned on her as the pain shot through her with each new movement, this was punishment. Just as mother had warned. Just as her priest had insisted. The Devil comes for sinful girls, tempting them with delights and promises no man could provide, only to claim their souls at their acceptance.

Was Ryan actually Satan in human form? Had he seduced her? Tempted her? Made her feel sinful urges? She had held hands with him. Had kissed him. And then she had been naked before him and placed her hands in forbidden places. Yes, Satan had surely come to claim her soul... in all her years of worry over Satan taking hold of her, she had never imagined it would be like this. No one warned Abigail that Satan would place himself inside her to retrieve her soul. It hurt. It hurt so much.

Ryan began moving with more speed, sensing her body's tension, her legs tried desperately to rid him but to him they squeezed tighter against his hips and drew him deeper.

He panted, grunted, cursed under his breath, quickening his pace. His limbs tingled with electricity and overwhelming feelings of power. She was his. She loved him, she had always loved him. It felt good, better than good, his fantasies had not lived up to the memories. This did.

With a heavy low growl that sounded less than human to Abigail, Ryan emptied himself into her, his entire body twitched and convulsed as he did.

He fell upon her but still maintained his hold over her face. At last, when he caught his breath he turned his head and whispered in her ear, "Thank you, sweetheart... thank you..."

The Devil withdrew, untied her and dressed himself. He placed a very tender kiss upon her forehead before leaving the cell.

Ryan either did not hear her sobs or chose to ignore them. He locked the door and ventured back to his cell where he lay upon his bed and fell into a deep sleep. The smile did not leave his lips from the moment he came inside her until he drifted into a happy blissful sleep.


	12. Ch12: Forgive Me Father

**Chapter 12**

**Forgive Me Father, For I Have Sinned**

Father Maguire crept through the long halls, aware that many of the patients were already away for breakfast but reluctant to be caught by any of them on his way to the chapel. On more than one occasion, the kindly priest had been stopped by a lost soul in the hall wishing to absolve their dirty sins upon him and he had allowed them to spill their souls and tears at his feet begging for the Lord's forgiveness. It was not so much that it scared him, but he felt much safer being in the safety of the chapel and the confessional booth. The pews, the altar, the drapes, the cross, it was all reassuring to him. It gave him a sense of security in God's omnipotence.

Listening ahead and sure he could hear no one loitering to catch him, he hastily ventured to his destination. If no one came for confession or blessing then he could work on his sermon for Sunday Mass. Not that many of the patients attended the event, but those that did seemed to gain some calm from it.

Upon entering the doors, he let out a sigh of relief at feeling the familiarity of this place. God was everywhere, but for some reason the halls of this building felt entirely Godless at times, he could never quite put his finger on why that was. He crossed himself appropriately at entering and was caught off guard by the sight of a single votive candle lit on the rack. The room was empty, this one little light stood alone and small against the darkness of this holy yet seemingly loveless place. Someone had been here recently to light it, the scent of burnt sulphur from a match till clung to the air.

He checked around, making sure no one was hiding or perhaps sleeping on the pews but there was no one to be seen.

Assured of his isolation and thinking perhaps someone had come to say a silent prayer to themselves earlier, he went to the confessional booth. The tiny piece of rolled up paper caught his eye instantly, it hung precariously from one of the small gaps in the screen and had managed to sneak its way past the curtain covering it.

Cautiously, Father Maguire reached out his hand and tenderly took hold of the tiny note, uncurling it to reveal a delicate handwriting and a simple yet predictable message.

"_Forgive me Father for I have sinned."_

He recognised the handwriting instantly, but the Seal of Confession prevented him from referring to her by name. Whether he knew her name or not, he would maintain his duty to take her confession without acknowledging her identity. How hard it must be, he thought, for the young Catholic girl to have to attend confession knowing she could be so easily identified by her affliction.

He sat, adjusted his fascia around his neck, crossed himself and kissed his bible before pulling the curtain back from the partition screen separating himself and the confessing child. He could see her silhouette in the adjacent cubicle and hear her tiny sobs.

"The Lord is with you, my child. Confess unto him," he spoke in a soft, non-judgemental voice.

She already had her pages ready and the first one was passed to him in a similar manner to the first.

"_I have had unclean thoughts and now the Devil and his minions have come for me. The Devil came to me last night. He was in my room."_

The handwriting, although fair of hand was inescapably gripped in fear as it had been written. He kept anonymity, wondering how the child had so quickly become so very scared.

The note was certainly dramatic, but her previous confession had been equally so. She used the words he had frequently witnessed in young women raised in his faith. His heart sank in the knowledge that she like so many others had clearly been instructed by an over-zealous childhood priest back home, obviously a Catholic minister who believed the only sure way to bring the children unto Christ was to instil the fear of God's wrath within them at a young age.

Father Maguire abhorred such practice. He detested the notion of telling young women they were whores for having natural urges or that their morals were loose for so much as thinking carnal thoughts. That they were assuredly going straight to Hell for their wickedness.

He was not innocent of such teachings. In his youth as a young priest, he too had confronted fornicators and heretics with disdain and all too vivid descriptions of the realities of the Hell they were surely heading towards. But he had seen too much in his time, too many good mothers who lost their children to pestilence, too many young, happy couples forced instead into loveless marriages coordinated by societies rules and blessed in God's eyes, too many men sent to war with the belief God would aid them and bring them home and yet were now buried in some distant land; his own brother being one of them.

Now he saw the good in people and when he did, he saw the face of God regardless of their faith or actions. If he could find virtue in them then the Almighty must surely do too.

It might do the mute girl good to get things off her chest, he would not scold her for doing so. Another small note slipped through the holes in the lattice. He wondered just how many pages she had written.

"_I kissed a man and yet I am unmarried. I have had strange thoughts I do not understand as I lay in bed at night. I did not realise this man was temptation, I thought he was my saviour, but he is truly the Devil incarnate. He walks this place on earth and wishes to claim my soul. I fear he has already stolen it last night._

_Please help me."_

The final words were smudged with tear stains.

Was she hallucinating? Had her condition been worse than he thought? He did not wish to feed the delusions but felt the need to hear more, anticipating that perhaps she had recounted the entire thing already on paper.

"What has the Devil done to you, my child?" he asked.

A shuffling sound came from beyond the divider as the girl searched for her answer and passed it across.

"_He put himself inside me." _

"The Devil possessed you?" he queried, unsure as to the meaning of her words.

Frantic scribblings and sobs could be heard. She clearly had not thought this needed further explanation, or perhaps she had struggled to write it down prior to this moment.

"_No, a part of his body. He put it where even I should not touch."_

Her writing indicated a trembling hand.

After contemplating her words, Father Maguire at last realised what she meant, his eyes grew wide and he was washed over with a deep unsettling feeling. Who could have done this to her? How had it been allowed to happen? He had been assured the patients rooms were locked at night. Was it a member of the staff?

No, he glanced back at the notes handed to him and read them again in order.

_I did not realise this man was temptation…_

His breath caught in his chest.

_I thought he was my saviour…_

"Good God…" he whispered to himself, being sure not to let the girl hear him, "Have I been so blind?"

A sweat began to form on his brow at the very notion and he replayed many long locked away memories, back to a time when he had taken the confession of a young man back in St Bartholomew's so many years ago now, back to a terrible tale he heard of unrequited lust and a torturous finale. He had hoped it was over after that night. Prayed that in this instance he was mistaken in his assumption.

He took a deep breath before asking the next question, "My Child, what form did Satan take when he came for your soul?"

The response did not take long to reach him, this she had prepared in her answers.

"_The Devil is Ryan."_

Father Maguire crumbled in defeat, his dog collar felt too tight now and despite how tightly he shut his eyes a single tear fell from them. He had done this. He had placed the two together, given them his blessing in a sense. In his ignorance and denial, he had placed Abigail's hand into Ryan's and he had done what he always feared Ryan was still capable of doing.

The girl was not delusional.

"I'm so sorry, my child… I did not know he would do this when I placed your hand in his,"

The heavy sound of many footsteps followed by the thunderous crash interrupted the moment of grief the two shared.

Father Maguire jumped back in his seat at the sound.

"She's here!" someone cried.

"Grab her!"

"Get her legs!"

The sounds of struggle, the almost inaudible sound of a broken panicked squeal, the confessional booth shook violently.

At last the priest shot out demanding an explanation.

He saw Abigail being forced out of her sanctuary, clawing at the walls, trying desperately to cry out. Her voice useless once again.

The guards and nurses, at least five bodies in total dragged her out of the booth and each restrained a limb between them. She struggled in their grasp.

At last Father Maguire saw her and his eyes were drawn immediately to the one colour that did not match the usual colours of the asylum. The smock she wore was stained with drying blood in the crotch area. Her legs showed the trailing marks of blood having dripped down them.

"You're lucky we got here when we did, Father," a frantic looking male nurse exclaimed breathlessly, as he held the girls left leg, "Any longer and she might have gutted you,"

"What in Heaven are you saying? Put that girl down!" Father Maguire ordered.

"Father, this girl is dangerous, she's already attacked one of our men,"

He stammered over the words, unsure if he had heard them right over the commotion, "What nonsense is this?" he demanded.

"If you don't believe me, Father," the nurse spoke as they begun to remove Abigail's struggling body from the chapel, "Check the infirmary,"

"It's the truth," another nurse interjected, "And we find her here covered in blood, what more evidence is needed?"

"No!" Father Maguire exclaimed desperately, trying to hold onto them, "She's innocent. She's been assaulted by one of your other patients. It was Ryan Kuhn,"

A momentary stillness overcame the staff at mention of the name, some passed knowing but shameful glances between themselves while others were left aghast in fear at the very uttering of the beast's true name.

"Impossible," an imposing and stern voice came from outside the chapel.

Matron stepped forward to reveal herself, the morning shadows cast sharp angles across her already pointed spinster features, "Ryan Kuhn. The Beast of Camden. Whatever you wish to call him is secured on the felony ward. His door is locked consistently at all times,"

"No," he argued insistently, "I've seen him. He's been out, he came here!"

The stony silence did not lift.

The staff who knew the reality kept their tongues bitten, not wishing to incur the wrath of anyone. Those that did not simply were dumbstruck by the pleadings of the old priest.

At last, Matron smiled and chuckled as she cleaned her spectacles, "Oh dear, Father. I think you've been taking the patient's stories too seriously. Perhaps you need a break from this position," she repositioned the small glasses upon her nose and looked at him over the rims, "I wouldn't want you to have to be admitted,"

The threat did not need to be any clearer than that. Father Maguire stammered over his words, trying to get them to listen but ultimately knowing it was fruitless, he had no proof, no solid evidence at his disposal.

"Please," he begged, "At least let me see Ryan, let me speak with him,"

Matron nodded to her posse of muscle and they removed Abigail who could only stare with sad, frightened eyes towards the kindly priest. Her eyes begged him for help. There was none he could offer her.

Matron turned to leave, "I'll have Jenkins escort you out, Father. I don't want to see you back here for a month, understood?" she did not wait for a response.

As Father Maguire approached to argue his point, a large burly man blocked his path. The aforementioned Jenkins, "Let's go, Padre,"

It was eight o'clock when Ryan left his cell that morning, much later than planned but after the morning inspection he had gone back to sleep for a while, still very much in blissful stupor of the events of the evening prior. He had dreamed pleasant, vivid dreams and wished to wallow in them.

Many patients were most unsettled by the satisfied smirk Ryan wore as he walked the halls towards recreation.

Already the rumours had started, hushed whispers emerging from Ward C by the women who heard a scream in the night and had watched from their slide shutters as the Beast left room thirty-one in the dead of night. In a place such as this, word spreads fast. Some of the more complex individuals, even those who spoke to no one and appeared not to notice another's presence hummed the melody to The Grand Old Duke of York once Ryan was out of earshot.

He lit a cigarette just as he entered the doors, took in a deep breath and surveyed the room, noticing how the few colours were even more vibrant now, the sounds of madness a little less intrusive. Abigail was not here. Perhaps she too had stayed in bed, hardly surprising, he smirked at the thought.

"Darling!" that unmistakable call interrupted his pondering and he saw Jim sat upon a table, Smythie by his side and a handful of his most trusted acquaintances perched in a similar fashion.

Ryan strode over, Jim extended his large hand towards him and they shook, a hearty laugh bellowed from the big man as he saw the very obvious change in Ryan's demeanour, "What did I tell you lad? A good shag and the world's a brighter place, is it not?"

Ryan beamed a proud, telling smile.

Smythie shifted uncomfortably, slid himself off the table and left the group. He was in no mood to hear any of this.

Ryan took the empty seat now provided and enjoyed his tobacco pleasantly, indeed, the world and all its flavours were alive to him once more.

Jim waved his hand to his band of men, who busied themselves with idle chatter at the gesture.

"So tell me," Ryan started as he smoked heavy lungs of nicotine, "What happened to Henderson? I must admit I'm curious,"

"He's alive," Jim's moustache quivered above his lip, "But trust me, he won't be telling anyone what happened,"

"What did you do to him?" Ryan quizzed, a newfound desire to divulge intel and share secrets upon him.

"Let me put it this way… two men went into that cell last night and during the course of the evening, one of them became a woman,"

Ryan let the words settle within him, "Wanted to see what it was like?" he said with a wicked grin. Where others may have flinched or even been horrified at the notion, Ryan simply laughed inwardly at it giving the Captain a knowing yet thankful look, "And pray tell, what did you do with his parts after castrating him?"

"I ate them," Jim responded with the same level of concern one might give when describing what they had for breakfast. Ryan did not react but was pleased none the less, "He shan't be looking at your mute again or any other woman for that matter,"

Breathing a heavy sigh of relief, Ryan was left completely unprepared for the answer to his next question.

"Where did you leave him?"

Jim chuckled loudly at his own cleverness before responding, bringing his pipe to his lips, "Where do you think?"

It took mere seconds for the meaning behind the sentence to become clear to him. As though some insidious creature slithered its way up Ryan's spine. He held his breath, slowly realising the full weight of Jim's words. He trembled and slid himself off the tabletop, suddenly very dizzy and sick to his stomach, the euphoria only moments ago had slipped away. Surely he hadn't, had he? The room span wildly, the hustle of it becoming white noise, the Captain's voice barely penetrated his horrified state, "Two birds, one stone shall we say,"

"No," Ryan managed to whisper harshly, unable to find any other suitable words, "No," he repeated as he attempted to find his legs to make them move. He understood now, he realised with dreaded certainty why Abigail was not here this morning and the repercussions of it.

He fled back down the hall, pushing and shoving his way past anyone in his way, oblivious to the Captain's remarks that trailed behind. He kept up the pace, fire rising in his gut the closer he got to room thirty-one, strain had already started to settle on his muscles. Twenty-one, he kept going, following the ascending numbers as though they were marker points in some horrible race. Twenty-five, patients moved out of his way, seeing the darkness in his eyes as he advanced, it scared many of them, some even backed into vacant cells and closed the doors, God help the man who had angered the Jackal. He bolted up the staircase. Twenty-nine, nearly there, panting heavily but determined not to lose speed, he turned the last corner, by now the corridor was empty. Thirty, one more push and he would be there, _she_ would be there, she _had _to be. Ryan abruptly halted outside Abigail's cell, having to cling to the frame so as not to run past it and he beheld the horror within.

He had left the cell a mess, he remembered that, remembered how he had left Abigail, her virginity broken and bleeding upon the mattress, but this was so much worse. The room was a dishevelled mess, items tossed about haphazardly and disarranged, a struggle had taken place. Blood puddled to the side of the bed, too much of it to have come from his endeavours, too much for a single person to lose. He saw where it dripped from, the bedding where he had left her was ruined, a ghastly display of crimson and black, it soaked through the mattress and begun leaking to the cold ground; he followed the trail and only now realised that he was standing in the blood, it had begun creeping its way out of the cell and into the corridor.

All he could do was take deep breaths, his eyes wide in alarm at the simple fact that Abigail was not here. He had no words as he slowly backed away from the scene, stopping only when his back hit the opposite wall, all he could do for a long time, was stare at the carnage.

"An impressive display if I do say so myself," the voice echoed through the emptiness. Ryan did not need to look to see who it was, nor did he need to see the smug look on Jim's face at saying it.

"You..." he growled, suddenly baring his teeth, shoving himself from the wall and advancing towards the heavy-set man.

"Ah ah ah!" Jim tutted, he barely moved at the show of aggression, he only folded his arms across his enormous chest, "I told you what needed to be done; a threat to herself or others I said and you agreed, darling. Your wish has been granted,"

Ryan stopped dead, his eyes did not leave Jim's, "I didn't ask you to do this!" he pointed accusingly at the viscera decorated cell.

"And how else was I supposed to get her moved? A young girl, weak... mute? How on Earth would I get her moved closer to your cell if I didn't," Jim turned away confidently, knowing he had nothing to fear by turning his back, he began walking slowly back to the recreational hall, "You'll find her two cells away from yours, best I could do, just please, don't get into the habit of it,"

Ryan bolted, rushing past Jim and leaving him behind to wander leisurely back to his business. In his haste, Ryan did not care who spotted him, it was blind luck that no one did. He reached his cell and stopped, his eyes piercing ahead to room thirteen, a room he knew had previously been vacant, it was not the sight of the cell that halted him; it was the sight of Smythie standing outside it, looking in through the shutter at what lay within.

"Why are you here?" Ryan asked angrily.

Smythie jumped back in fright, sliding the shutter closed quickly, his whole persona taking on the cowardly, obedient thief charade. The look in Ryan's eyes told him instantly that the man would not be reasoned with.

Ryan began striding with fury forward, he reached for Smythie, grabbed his oversized shirt and lifted him, throwing him back against the wall, "What do you want?" he yelled.

"Nothin' gov'," Smythie winced, a pain pulsating from the back of his head where it had impacted with the wall.

"You're lying!" Ryan spat, his eyes dark, his teeth bared.

"I just… just…" Smythie reached for his pocket as his legs kicked helpless beneath him, unable to reach the floor. He pulled out several small pieces of chalk and a pencil, all of which fell to the floor through his trembling fingers, "I thought she still needed these… I… I retrieved them, brought her papers, her board, everything the staff left,"

Sharp, deep breaths came through Ryan's clenched teeth in a snarl, he knew Smythie had access to keys and could easily enter any room he saw as opportunistic, "You stay away from her, you understand me?"

Smythie nodded frantically with wide eyes, but it did not stop Ryan bashing bashing the thief's head against the wall one more time to make sure the message was clear, "If she needs anything, you give it to me. No one is to speak to her, no one is to touch her, only me. She is mine, do you understand?"

Smythie could not speak, his voice caught in his throat. He had long hoped he would not be in this situation with Ryan and so he timidly nodded again. It was not until Ryan let him go and he slid to the ground that he realised how much his eyes stung and that they were producing tears, Smythie had not blinked once during the exchange. He scurried off quickly without looking back.

With the calm returning once again and adrenaline plummeting, Ryan found himself shaking. He clenched his fists tightly to try to regain his composure but it seemed to do little to alleviate the involuntary reaction. He suddenly felt exhausted with all that had happened in such a short time, his legs felt unstable, but he felt present and alert despite this. He went to the door of cell thirteen and slowly with an unsteady hand, opened the shutter. A deep sigh of relief came from him.

"Abigail?" he asked gently.

The tiny figure sat crossed legged in the centre of the room did not turn around nor react to his voice, but he knew it was her, the hair was unmistakeable.

She would not face him, not after what he had done, she would not reveal her weeping eyes to him, she held her breath in an attempt to stop crying making her shoulders jump instead. She could not look at him. She would not.

At last he saw with true eyes, not the clouded rose-tinted bliss of the night prior or the colours of this morning, he saw her. The young girl who had taken his hand on so many occasions, had insisted he dance with her, had kissed him willingly, the one friend he had truly made in this place with no strings attached; and he saw what he had done to her.

A wave of guilt hit him hard, "I'm so sorry," he whispered to her, "I…" He stopped. There was no excuse he could think of that would justify his behaviour, "Please, speak to me…" he urged, not yet realising that much to the young girl's dismay, her voice had once again left her. The scream she managed to produce last night a momentary fluke brought on by intense pain. After he left her, she spent hours trying to vocalise, desperately attempting to make any sound come from her sore throat. It simply had not happened. Now, she wished him away, hoping he would leave her alone.

Defeated, he sighed wearily, "You're tired. I understand. So am I. Listen, I'll be back later, I promise…" he withdrew from her door, unable to see the cascading tears that fell from her eyes at his assurances to return.

He went straight to his own cell after picking up the fallen items dropped in the skirmish with Smythie. Removed the master key from its hiding place in the wall and the bottle of gin. He lay on his bed, drinking heavily and smoking until he passed out from sheer mental and physical exhaustion. He would not awaken until midnight.


End file.
